Survival of the Fittest
by Sweet Anonymity
Summary: Tony's in trouble, and determined not to endanger Gibbs or his team. Gibbs isn't about listen to Tony-and he's not about to let Tony run out on him. Not a second time. ::Crossover with "The Sentinel;" sequel to "Wrath":: Gen
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **I don't own any the characters. I just borrow them for non-profit fanfiction purposes. ;)

**A/N: **So...I really took my time getting around to posting this. Sorry, to anyone who might still be waiting to read it. :3 On the bright side: it's complete, so I'll be able to post regularly.

I suppose you could call this a part of a "series," now. _Instincts _and _Wrath _come before this, and I'm pretty sure you'd have a hard time understanding this without having read them. Also in this 'verse (in no particular order): _Wolf Pack Law_ & _Guidelines_.

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**Chapter 1**

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At first Gibbs thought it was Ducky, checking up on him early. Usually, Ducky was like clockwork about it. He'd come in quietly, bearing home-cooked food, or a bottle of old scotch, or both. Gibbs generally ignored the food. He also ignored the fact that he was being a hypocrite; "eat" was not an uncommon demand he'd had to make of Ziva and McGee in the past weeks.

Even respect and friendship might not have been enough for Gibbs to allow Duck's none-too-covert supervision. But the thing with Duck was that he knew the boundaries and kept his distance from them. He brought the food, but he didn't force the issue when Gibbs chose to ignore the offering. Ducky simply continued to offer, and, if he did look increasingly concerned, Gibbs knew he didn't have the grounds to tell him not to worry, so he didn't.

Gibbs ran his fingers along the freshly sanded wood, not taking satisfaction in its smoothness. It was another calculated task checked off his list, another self-appointed chore seen through with precision. All he could find here was a dull kind of accomplishment too muted to qualify as more than a pause in routine: a moment, fleeting and detached, where he simply acknowledged he'd accomplished something. It didn't matter that it was valueless.

He began sanding again, mostly to avoid being stalled when Ducky came down the stairs. Above the noise he was creating, he listened to the footsteps. They sounded heavier, and more hesitant, than usual. There was a hitch in the gait itself. If it was Ducky, he was limping.

Gibbs knew, then, that the waiting was over, and that Ducky had been right when he'd said it was only a matter of time.

"Hey Boss," Tony greeted as casually as if he were reporting in for a normal day of work. He was silhouetted in the doorway.

Gibbs could hear the uncertainty behind the words. They weren't as blasé as they sounded. Gibbs stopped his work to stare at the silhouette.

He could almost hear Tony swallow, and see the wince on his face. "Well, this is awkward," he continued, self-condemnation evident in the poor attempt at flippancy, and in his even poorer attempt at a chuckle.

Gibbs almost said something, but he made a habit of not speaking for people when they had something to say, and Tony had a lot to explain.

Tony took two steps, slowly, before stopping, still only a dark shape protected by the shadows. "Yeah, um… Just to make it clear, I'm not looking for my job back. Three months late for work is…is a lot."

_A lot to forgive. _Gibbs read it between the lines and heard it loud and clear. He clenched his jaw tighter against a response.

"I don't know how this Sentinel stuff works. But I know enough to know I haven't kept up my end of the deal, and I didn't, you know…come back expecting to have a position open there, either. Just want you to know I'm not here for any favors, or anything."

Wordlessly, Gibbs turned to his workbench. Ducky's most recent offering of scotch was open, and he found a second makeshift "glass," pouring two shots. Looking back at the figure on the stairway, he found Tony fallen into some kind of stupor. Head bent, a hand on the rail, he didn't appear to have been watching Gibbs.

"DiNozzo."

Tony started, looked up at the offered drink, and gradually made his way down the stairs and into the light.

The light revealed enough to produce several pointed curses from Gibbs, which made Tony stop short of taking the drink, blinking at Gibbs more than a little blankly.

"Huh? Oh, yeah." Tony looked down at himself with scrutiny that was comical in its seriousness. "Pardon the dirt. I did wipe my feet at the door, but the rest seems kind of ingrained. My wardrobe's just not at the top of its game these days."

"DiNozzo, what the—"

"—Boss." Tony cut him off, sounding embarrassed. He took the second glass of scotch, downed it almost hungrily, and coughed out hoarsely, "That doesn't matter. It's not the point."

Gibbs contradicted that with a stare that made Tony's expression twitch uneasily. He took a step back, as if he meant to turn and leave—like _that_ was going to happen. Gibbs' anger, for all its legitimacy, was swiftly being overruled. It was impossible not to be concerned: the light had revealed more than a change in wardrobe. The wrinkled shirt and faded jeans were perhaps the most visible changes, but to Gibbs they were only the most obvious indicator of something more telling. Even with exhaustion showing in the way he hunched his shoulders, and in the brittle smile he was trying to wear, Tony was like a barely tamed animal, eyes roving around the basement as if it might at any minute close in on him.

Tony didn't have much pride left, but he was clinging to what he had left, acting normal not because he thought Gibbs would buy it, but because to let go in front of Gibbs simply wasn't an option. Tony would come to Gibbs limping, but on his own two feet, not _crawling_. Maybe he would have, once, but right now he was playing his cards close to the vest, holding on as tight to hurts as Gibbs had ever seen him do, and doing the poorest job of it he'd ever done.

"Sit."

The Tony that Gibbs knew understood an invitation. He would've understood a concession when he heard it.

This Tony snarled a "_no,_" suddenly hostile, and turned his back on Gibbs.

When Gibbs reached out to stop him, he only intended to get his attention.

Tony reacted as if he'd been touched with a live wire, jerking away. "No. Don't. Just hear me out."

Gibbs could see a tremor in Tony's hand, but held back, clenching his jaw against the need to demand answers. He couldn't tell what this new, unpredictable DiNozzo would do.

"I messed up big time, Boss. Not about leaving. I had to leave. But it was the coward's way out to leave the note. I should've said my goodbyes face-to-face. You deserved that. You, Abby…you _all_ deserved it." Tony turned his head enough that Gibbs could make out old bruising beneath the several days' growth of beard on his face. "I regret that much, and I… I just needed to tell you that."

Gibbs didn't like the direction this was going. It was too much like a _last_ goodbye. "What happened?"

Tony bowed his head. "I wasn't detained, if that's what you mean. Well, _mostly _notdetained."

"Who?"

Tony gave a weary shake of his head. "Turns out there are all kinds of kooky Sentinel fans out there." His voice was thick with sarcasm. "They just keep popping out of the woodwork, huh? This guy made Montague look like one of the good guys." He snorted softly. "Guess that would make Avery positively saintly..."

Gibbs remembered the limp he'd heard in Tony's step. "What did he do to you?"

"Doesn't matter. I got away."

"DiNozzo—"

"—And I'll get away again if I have to." Tony turned, making steady eye-contact. He titled his chin defiantly. "Having Abby used against me once was plenty. I learned my lesson."

"You're doing this for Abby?" Gibbs asked tightly. He stepped angrily into Tony's personal space. "The next time I find her in her lab, crying and inconsolable, I'll tell her that."

Tony's jaw twitched. "Yeah. Tell her that. There's no way I'm letting paranoid maniacs like Carlin anywhere near Abby, or the team, or…my Guide."

The idea that Tony was protecting him wasn't one Gibbs had considered. He didn't miss the haunted look in Tony's eyes that said he'd not only considered the possibility, but all of its worst-case scenarios. Tony had been afraid to come here, at all—afraid for _Gibbs_.

"I've got to go," Tony muttered, heading for the stairs. He didn't make it to the second step without stumbling. Gasping, but struggling valiantly, he gripped the rail to remain upright.

Gibbs moved in to support him, pulling the arm Tony wasn't using to grip the rail over his shoulders.

"Boss, I'm—"

"—You're coming with me."

He should've learned from Tony's last reaction to direct command that he wasn't taking orders tonight.

Tony tried to pull away, muttering darkly, "Let go." Gibbs felt him go stiff with pain, some movement turning out to be the _wrong_ movement. "_Le'go_," Tony repeated, words more muddled, but no less adamant.

"The only place you're going is the ER."

Tony panicked, twisting out Gibbs' hold with alacrity, and making it all the way to the top of the stairs before his legs gave out and he fell to his knees on the landing with a cry of pain.

"Hey, easy—easy."

Tony was breathing heavily, dazed, and still trying to pull himself to his feet. Whatever was wrong with him, he belonged in the hospital, but Gibbs could see that wasn't about to happen as long as DiNozzo was conscious to put up a fight. Besides, ever since this Sentinel business Gibbs was hesitant to put Tony's health in the hands of doctors who knew nothing about any of it.

"No hospital…" Even without the strength to resist Gibbs' help this time, Tony repeated the words with an intensity of will.

Gibbs sighed. "Yeah. No hospital." The promise made, he was able to lever a relatively pliant Tony to his feet, and tow him into the living room.

Tony lowered himself to the couch with groan, using both hands to gingerly position a stiff right leg. Gibbs swore more profoundly than before when he saw the dried blood; Tony's shirt had been dark enough that he hadn't noticed it in the basement's dim lighting.

"Should've taken my shoes off," Tony commented blandly, looking apologetically at his feet. "S'nice couch, too."

Gibbs wasn't about to let himself be sidetracked. He reached for the phone on the side table, but Tony's hand shot out to stop him.

"Not Ducky."

"It _is_ a nice couch. Not about to let you bleed out on it."

Tony narrowed his eyes. "Bleeding's stopped."

Before Tony could stop him, Gibbs reached over with his free hand and pulled Tony's shirt up—far enough to discover, with yet another oath, mottled bruising covering Tony's side, and a good portion of his chest.

"You _were_ going tell me about this."

"'Course, Boss," Tony lied smoothly.

Gibbs didn't like the look of the bruising at all. It was relatively recent, but turning an ugly purple-black. The blood, at least, seemed to have its source in superficial scrapes, but they should've been cleaned. With all the dirt he was wearing it would be a miracle if Tony avoided infection.

Tony still hadn't let go of Gibbs' other wrist, and he looked at Gibbs with chagrin, and a note of pleading in his tone. "Not Ducky, Boss."

"You got any other suggestions on how you're going to get medical treatment?"

"Well, you see, it's a funny thing. Although I'm not exactly _certified_, I've got the best bedside manner I know of, and really, if we're talking _experience _with injuries…"

"Experience in healing, DiNozzo. Not dealing and receiving."

"Some of those nurses think needles are javelins, I'm telling you."

"And I'm telling you're not going anywhere without Ducky taking a look at you."

"Boss," definitely pleading, now, "I just…_can't_ see Ducky right now. I feel stupid enough, coming here like this. I didn't mean it to look like I was out of options—'cause I'm not."

Maybe he wasn't out of options, but looking at this gaunt-faced, and wary-eyed, version of his agent, it wasn't _options_ Gibbs saw Tony running out of.

"It's ironic, really," Tony said, distractedly. "I was kind of proud of myself just 'n hour ago, thinking I'd made it all the way back here with out any wackos catching me. And then I had to go'n get lazy at an intersection. Geez, who woulda thought there was _reason_ jay-walking's against the law?" He chuckled with a small shrug of his shoulders. "Who woulda thought a car like that could pack such a punch?"

"Car?" Gibbs repeated, feeling suddenly very weary, as if the weeks of restless nights were catching up with him all at once. Right then he would've liked to shake the answers out of Tony. He had several month's worth of questions saved up.

"Station wagon," Tony answered, in the same distant manner. "It was a _woody_, which is technically a step below 'car' in the evolutionary ladder, if you ask me."

Gibbs interrupted to tell that hit-and-run driver exactly where he could go. He would've liked to tell him face-to-face.

"For being distractible numskull of a driver with a sissy car, the guy was actually pretty nice. Just about kidnapped me and took me to the ER, himself. But I told him the same thing I'm telling you: I'm _fine_. Just a bit bruised up here and there."

Gibbs raised an eyebrow.

"Okay, so maybe there are few minor dings, too. Nothing you should go bothering Ducky about at this time of night." Tony pulled himself half upright. "Wouldn't have bothered you this late, either, but I happen to have it on good authority that Gibbs doesn't need sleep."

Gibbs smiled a little despite himself. Abby's authority, no doubt.

"So, thanks for the drink, and all…"

"Stay, DiNozzo," Gibbs paused only a moment, to catch the mutinous gleam that sprang into Tony's eyes, before adding, "please."

Seeing Tony's surprise was worth it; he probably would've staggered if he'd been standing.

As it was, he swallowed thickly, and tried lamely to recover with, "Ah, thanks, but you see I've got this Landlady from Hell, and if I don't pay up by the weekend I'm pretty sure she'll be after me with a pitchfork. I kid you not. Plus, there's..."

Gibbs waited while Tony rambled himself dry of excuses, before asking simply: "You done?"

Tony sank back with a heavy sigh, probably intended to sound melodramatic, but sounding too realistically weary for Gibbs to buy it. "Boss, I can't stay."

"You mean you think you can't."

"It's better this way."

"You're that selfish?"

Tony's eyes flash angrily. "I can't stop being a Sentinel, but I can stop endangering the people I care about. That's what I'm doing. Besides, it was about time for me to make a change, anyways. I've never stayed in one place long; you've seen my resume."

"Sounds like you've got it all figured out."

"I've thought about it just a _little_," Tony snapped. "It is my life, after all."

"Maybe."

"What do you mean 'maybe'? I quit, remember?"

"I'm not talking about the _job_, DiNozzo."

"_You don't own me_," Tony growled, crossing his arms gingerly over his chest, and looking for the world like a rebellious teenager. A teenager who'd been in a fight at school.

"Sentinels don't stop being Sentinels, and Guides don't stop being Guides."

"Sandburg tell you that?"

Gibbs tilted his head with a small smile. "He didn't have to."

* * *

Tony wondered, now, if maybe the reason he'd come back was because, subconsciously, he'd been looking to get an invitation to stay. No, not an invitation: an order, from Gibbs. How pathetic was that? He sure hadn't intended to zone out in front of that car, but, in the end, hadn't that worked to his advantage as well? Yeah, he was sure he cut as pathetic a sight as he was currently feeling. The long lost Sentinel, returned at last, limping, scratched up, and half out of his mind from exhaustion. He was _sure_ the image he was presenting was of a grown man, fully capable of looking after himself. _You're bloody brilliant, DiNozzo. Or at least your subconscious is; you've got your orders to stay, all right._

But, honestly, he hadn't been intending to allow himself to be convinced, no matter how much Gibbs growled or glared. He still didn't know that he _was_ convinced. One thing was for sure, though, Gibbs' "please," combined with his claim that being a Guide was no more a glove you could slip on and slip off than being a Sentinel.

More than convincing him on the spot that he had to stay, the idea scared Tony into silence. Here he'd been working under the theory that if he stayed away long enough Gibbs, and everyone else, would forget about him. Well, maybe not forget, exactly—but move on. And here Gibbs was telling him that they were Sentinel-and-Guide for life. At least that was obviously what Gibbs wanted Tony to believe. Tony wasn't sure Gibbs wouldn't lie about it if Gibbs thought it might guilt him into feeling some kind of responsibility to stay.

The only problem was, the guilt-trip was kinda working. Even if Gibbs had chosen to be his Guide, it hadn't been without hesitation—and if he had been sucked into some kind of freakish lifestyle that involved this Sentinel-Guide thing, well, then, maybe Tony did owe him something. What that something was, Tony didn't have the faintest clue. There had to be something, besides staying glued to Gibbs' side for life, that would compensate. People didn't go around forming life-long commitments to each other, right? Well…of course there was family like that, or so Tony had heard. He wasn't all that experienced firsthand with that kind of stuff, and it was panic-inducing to think that someone might feel that way about _him_. If he was honest, it was also a little nice, just a little, to think of himself as irreplaceable in someone's life. It was a foreign concept, but, yeah, a kind of nice one.

Of course he was _so_ never telling Gibbs that.

While Tony had been busy being stunned into silence, Gibbs had picked up the phone and called Ducky, after all. Apparently the choice was out of his hands, and he _was_ staying for a check-up. The concession didn't mean he liked the idea; he just liked the idea of being tackled and hog-tied by a Marine even less. If he didn't have broken ribs, Tony was fairly sure they were at least cracked, and as it was he wasn't looking forward to being poked and prodded by Ducky. He was looking forward even less to being poked and prodded with the questions that would inevitably follow.

Tony started when a glass of milk appeared in his field of vision.

"You wouldn't happen to have slipped a sedative into that?"

"Drink," Gibbs recommended, with his usual charming brand of persuasiveness.

"No 'please' this time?" Tony was already reaching for the glass mid-taunt, taking a quick gulp, and flashing a quick smile. "S'good. I'd almost forgotten what milk tasted like."

Counting the amount of times Tony's big mouth had gotten him in to trouble would have been a monumental achievement. _Stupid lack of sleep_… It was making him even more prone to speak first, and grimace later. Gibbs was giving him that knowing look, the one that said anything Gibbs _didn't_ know wasn't going to _stay_ unknown for long.

"What? Milk's expensive, and the last Sentinel groupie to offer me hospitality really thought of me more as a dog than a cat, I think. At least that's what I gathered from his training methods. But, you know, milk really isn't _good_ for cats, anyways…"

Uh oh, that little tirade had back-fired. Gibbs was looking _mean_, now.

"Training methods?"

"Ah, yeah… You see, this guy, Carlin, wasn't big on Sentinels actually roaming the streets off-leash, and when I say 'groupie' we're talking about a fan of the more…paranoid variety." Gibbs looked like he needed a little good news, which Tony offered: "On the bright side, I got away before he could use the spiffy shock collar I just know he was itching to try out."

Apparently, it wasn't the _right_ good news. Gibbs was looking scary-mean.

Tony cleared his throat. "I'm not saying definitively that he was one of those people who pulled the legs off spiders as kid, but I would hazard a guess that mommy and daddy weren't big on hugs and all that nurturing stuff. Or if they were, they failed." After a point, you might as well keep digging that pit for yourself, all the way to China. It felt oddly good to vent. Tony took another drink of milk. "While I'm not recommending the Carlin Method, I will give the guy this much: he knew how to get results fast. Guess I just wasn't ready for his full-immersion level classes—but I'll tell ya, I learned all kinds of things about control. I think I went a whole day, once, without feeling a thing. Literally."

Tony chuckled, a hysterical sound to his own ears, trying not to remember how it had felt to yank the "dial" for sense of touch all the way down to zero. He'd heard, once, that leprosy itself wasn't technically responsible for the disfigurement of those with the disease; it was the inabilities of those with the disease to feel anything, their inability to sense when there was a danger of harm to themselves, that led to the destruction of their bodies.

It was a freaky feeling not to feel, but it had been better than the alternative. It had been a small victory over Carlin, to have that control over his own senses.

"I'll kill him."

Tony squinted at Gibbs. He'd almost forgotten there was someone listening to him. "Thanks, but the thing with paranoid people is that they're much better at giving _you_ the slip than you are at avoiding them. He's the cat, I'm the mouse. If he doesn't want to be found, he won't be."

"Don't count on it."

Ducky's arrival was a heaven-sent, Tony had to admit. The room couldn't handle much more intensity without blowing sky-high. At the least, Tony hoped he'd put Gibbs' need for answers to rest—for a man half dead from lack of sleep, he thought he'd painted a pretty concise picture of the highlights of his vacation.

"Anthony DiNozzo, what have you done to yourself?"

"Wasn't me," Tony returned evenly, aiming for the poor-misused-me tone. "A car. 'Course, was kinda my fault for choosing the middle of the street as a spot to zone out." That admission certainly didn't help make Gibbs look any more relaxed. As a matter of fact, he was just the image of "trigger-happy" that Tony kept cataloged in mental picture dictionary. It was probably time to shut up—but, then, when had he started listening to common sense?

"My dear boy," Ducky said, shaking his head, "you are sight for sore eyes."

"Don't'cha mean a sight to cause sore eyes?"

"That too, I'm afraid. A car, you say? It looks rather as if it were a truck that ran you over."

"Station wagon. And I was really just a fender-bender," Tony said modestly.

Ducky approached, already clucking disapprovingly. "Let's have a look at you, then."

Tony really should've known better than to expect Ducky to start right off with some kind of interrogation. He would've felt better if Ducky _had_. "Look, Ducky," Tony began uncertainly, "I'm sorry about getting you up in the middle of the night for a house call. It wasn't my idea."

"No, I suspect it was not, and, quite frankly, I'm wounded that you should feel a need to apologize."

_Ouch_. You didn't get that level of disapproval from Ducky often. "Yeah, well, seems I've got a lot to apologize for, and it's hard to keep track sometimes of which 'I'm sorry' goes where."

Ducky's expression softened-either what he saw when he lifted Tony's shirt was really _that_ bad, or he was relenting simply because he was Ducky, and could only stay stern so long, especially with a patient. "You have returned home, Anthony. In my book, that is the biggest step towards making amends you can make, after disappearing on us like that. Abigail and the rest will be so relived. I know I am."

_Double—triple—ouch. _Tony was beginning to suspect that the All-Knowing Gibbs had been counting on this when he'd insisted on Ducky coming. He'd _known_ Ducky would be perfect for guilting him into staying, for the very fact that Ducky wasn't trying to _guilt_ him at all. It hit home.

Any further speculation was put to a swift and painful end when Ducky began examining the bruising on his chest and side. "Ducky," he whined, trying not to moan, "this patient happens to still be _alive_."

"A fact for which I am extremely grateful. I intend to keep it that way," Ducky said patiently. "I am assuming hospital is out of the question?" he asked, looking sideways at Gibbs.

"I know what cracked ribs feel like," Tony grumbled. "Don't _need_ x-rays."

Ducky sighed the well-earned sigh of a true martyr. "Call me a Doubting Thomas, but I, as your friend and impromptu-doctor, would have more peace of mind if I could be sure that cracked ribs were all you have, with no injured internal organs on the side."

Tony waved the idea off. "I wouldn't be breathing this easy if I had a lung punctured."

"Indeed not, but with all this ugly bruising, and with you having had the Y-Pestis I don't like to think of—"

"—Why does everything have to come back me having had the Pneumonic Plague?" Tony griped. "I don't have it now, and I'm breathing fine—and I'm not going to the hospital."

Ducky was faintly humoring, and at once uncompromising. "We'll see about that. Now, let's take a look at that skull of yours—and that leg, too."

"Ducky…"

Completely ignoring Tony, Ducky looked at Gibbs, musing wryly, "The dead give one so much less trouble."

Tony decided to stop squirming.

After that, things became fuzzy. Once Ducky had examined his head, half blinding him in the process while checking for even dilation, both he and Gibbs disappeared for a moment, and Tony found himself involuntarily dozing. A second glass of milk materialized, which he drank without thinking.

It was a bad idea.

"S'your idea," Tony accused Gibbs, with the remnants of his deteriorating ability to focus. "S-sedatives 'r low." Really low. Gibbs knew medication could work funny on him, even before this Sentinel business.

The blur that was Gibbs had to be smiling, 'cause Tony could hear it in his voice when he whispered, somewhere near Tony's ear, "Whatever it takes."

* * *

_To Be Continued_


	2. Chapter 2

_See chapter one for disclaimer._

**A/N: **Thanks so much for all the wonderful feedback! You guys are the best. :) Here's more-and some Abby-style H/C!

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**Chapter 2**

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Once upon a time, laying in bed after the first rays of awareness had dawned would have been pleasant. However, once upon a time, Tony's last memories before going to sleep didn't involve being hit by a car, or being drugged by a well and truly ticked-off Gibbs.

He was pretty sure none of that was a dream. The bruised ache standing in for his ribcage agreed about the being hit by a car part, and the sludge that was currently his brain definitely agreed about the drugs.

All that, unfortunately, confirmed the Gibbs part, too. And now that he thought about it, Gibbs had been a level or three beyond "ticked." Whatever _ticked_ was, it sounded too tame to fit Gibbs most of the time.

Worst of all realizations was the realization that he, Anthony DiNozzo—sometime Special Agent, presently simply Special—had come crawling back to his boss' house like an abused puppy, and he hadn't managed to crawl back _out, _according to plan.

His mental rehearsal of how last night should've gone didn't match up with how it had gone, not in any shape or form. In his mind, he'd seen himself striding in, hale and whole and utterly capable of self-preservation, and said something noble and stoic to the effect of: "I left. I return. I am fine. I will leave again." Of course, there would've had to have been something about "do not mourn for me" thrown in there, somewhere, but he'd winced every time he thought about saying it to Gibbs. Maybe it had seemed too presumptuous to assume anyone was exactly in _mourning_ over him.

In the end, it didn't matter, because he'd been neither hale, nor whole, and in the self-preservation department he'd fallen down, literally and figuratively. He had painful memories of not only going weak in the knees, but allowing Gibbs to all but carry him to the couch. From there, it wall all snatches of himself saying way too much about what Carlin had done to him.

To summarize, he'd been pathetically melodramatic, doing a good job of doing exactly what he hadn't intended to do: appear in desperate need of a Guide.

He was really beginning to wish he were unconscious again, even if the process involved him banging his head against a hard surface. Still, there was the small off-chance that if he opened his eyes he would discover that he was not where he thought he was. Maybe the fact that he was comfortable (minus the inevitable aches and pains after rehearsing for the role of road block in a car accident), and warm like he hadn't been in a long time, did _not_ mean he was in Gibbs' guestroom. Who cared if his highly trained investigative instincts told him otherwise? One plus one might turn out to be three, for a change. Tony was open to creative math.

Opening his eyes, he was hardly given the chance to recognize that the room was indeed Gibbs' guestroom, and then Abby's face blocked his view.

"_You're awake, you're awake_," she said, considerate in not squealing. Even so, it was impossible not to feel like you'd been nominated the world's most popular person. Abby's greetings had a way of doing that.

Tony knew her well enough to also see the lingering anxiety in her eyes, and, remembering what Gibbs had said about "crying and inconsolable," he was hard pressed to meet her eyes at all. Feeling shamed and awkward, he did what came naturally to him in such a predicament, offering a roguish, lop-sided smile, and quipping: "Never knew I was such a treat to look at first thing in the morning." He narrowed his eyes at her. "Tell me you haven't been sitting here _watching_ me sleep."

"Only for a few hours. And I have Tetris on my phone."

Tony winced. "You'll be trying to put those little building blocks together in your sleep, tonight."

"Yeah, been there." Judging by the more than usually spastic way she was radiating energy, Caff-Pow had also involved in the bedside vigil. "That's not the point, though. You're _awake_," she repeated a third time, sitting on the bed beside him and wrapping her arms around him. While it was certainly one of her squeeze-you-to-death-for-joy kind of hugs, she'd obviously been told about his injuries, and was careful to pull in him for a strangle-hug, instead of breaking any ribs.

It was really hard to _tell_ someone that you couldn't breathe. Tony didn't try at first, anyways, because lack of air coming through the windpipe or no, there was nothing like a full-on Abby hug. She had her cheek pressed up against the side of his neck, and her chin on his shoulder, and even though he'd never felt that comfortable with prolonged embraces, Tony found himself patting her back.

When his pats became a little more frantic, Abby finally got the message and pulled back—en-route, planting a kiss on his cheek. The blood that rose to Tony's face was confused, equal parts pleased embarrassment, and mortification. The fact that Gibbs hadn't told her that he intended to leave—had intended to go last night, without talking to her at all—was becoming apparent. Abby wouldn't be this wholeheartedly _happy_ with him if she knew that. The thought of telling her that he still did intend to leave was enough to make his stomach feel queasy.

"You haven't been eating, having you?"

It sounded mostly rhetorical, but Tony protested anyways. "Have too."

"Not enough," she contradicted, adding with no small distress, "You're all _boney_—I felt your shoulders."

"Muscle," Tony pouted.

"Scrawny."

"_Lean_."

"_Ducky_ says you're too thin."

"I've been walking a lot."

"And not eating _enough_."

Tony had been in the act of sitting up. Now he let his head fall back to the pillow with a sigh. "Abbs, while I was gone, things were…" Hard? Brutal? The road was long and lonely? He wasn't about to use any words that might conjure up even more pity from an Abby already overflowing with it. "…complicated," he decided, finally. "Day to day stuff got kinda rushed." He shrugged. "Sometimes I forgot things." And sometimes he couldn't afford them. Evading yahoos, and being "on the road," were jobs that had taken up plenty of time; unfortunately, neither job paid that well.

Whatever he _hadn't_ said, he'd said it exactly right to get just the rush of sympathy from Abby he hadn't intended to provoke. Her expressive features where full of compassion. Tony wanted to bury his head in the pillow. He was about the last person who deserved her compassion right then. Even without knowing that he was intending to leave again, he couldn't understand why she hadn't given him a good scolding for leaving in the first place. Maybe the scolding was still coming. Either way, Tony couldn't attribute to Abby something as low as heaping coals of fire on his head through caring like this, all for the purpose of making him feel like a low-down, no-good, rotten so-called _friend_.

Knowing that she really _did_ genuinely care, that was the worst of it.

"Abby…" he began, knowing the longer he stalled telling her he was leaving the less painful it would be, and hoping that by the time he found the right words to explain, and apologize, he'd also have found the courage to say them.

Abby put a finger to his lips. "Nope. You don't get to complain, or say you're sorry, or do anything until I've nursed you back to health."

"What _do_ I get to say?" Tony said, speech muddled by the inhibiting finger.

"Nothing, for the moment. You can just lie there, and be good while I get you some breakfast."

"Breakfast in bed? Abby, that's—"

"Aht." The finger, just removed, came again with backup, as she put her hand over his mouth, gently but firmly. "_That_ is a complaint."

"Mm's'rry."

"And _that_ is an apology." Abby shook her head fondly. "You're not too good at this rest 'n relaxation stuff, are you? Never mind. Don't answer that. I'll be back quick, and you'd better not have moved a muscle. And I mean that. I want to see everything just like it is," Abby said, as she backed in the direction of the door, mimicking a frame with both hands as she took a mental picture of Tony's precise position.

Tony waited about five minutes before very carefully turning his head on the pillow to note the time on the digital clock. 7:45. He positioned his head again as Abby had last seen it, surprised at the time. After all, he'd stumbled into Gibbs' house at nearly midnight, and probably hadn't been knocked out by the sedative until some time around one o'clock. He'd definitely felt, then, like he needed twenty-four hour's sleep, at least. Instead he'd slept seven hours—and, more surprising, slept without dreaming. As a result, he actually felt as if he _had_ slept, a novel sensation of late.

The smell of eggs that Tony caught turned out to belong to actual eggs, a whole omelet-worth of 'em, replete with cheese and ham oozing out. For a long time after Abby came in with it on a tray all Tony could do was stare at it and its accompanying glass of orange juice. All it was missing was a quaint vase of wildflowers, and maybe a sprig of parsley, and his moment inside a staged magazine ad would've been complete.

"It's called food, Tony. You eat it."

"It looks…really good."

"Innit pretty? Gibbs made it," Abby said proudly.

Tony swallowed. They were all out to torment him with kindness. But it wouldn't work. "Yeah. Pretty."

"So eat it already, then." Abby sat down on the bed again, watching expectantly.

Tony considered being unnerved by the audience, but it was at that moment his hunger, taunted by the smell of the food, overpowered him. At the end of the carnage, he sat back against the headboard of the bed with contented sigh. He then became aware that Abby was still talking.

"…threw your clothes away, but—"

"Wait—what?" Tony looked under the covers, discovered he was wearing sweatpants and a faded gray NCIS shirt, and grimaced. The image of Ducky and Gibbs hauling his unconscious butt to the guest room had been distasteful enough as it was.

"Don't be such a baby," Abby said, telepathy at work again. "The clothes you were wearing were filthy."

But they'd been _his_; one of the few things he could currently lay claim to. Besides, it wasn't so much the loss of the clothes he was being a baby about. It was the sense of helplessness at having been unconscious during all _that_.

"Besides," Abby continued, "you weren't listening. Your clothes are in the wash."

"Oh." He just felt plain silly, now, being possessive of a pair of exhausted old jeans, and a nondescript t-shirt. Still, there was one more thing. "The duffel bag I left on the steps—"

"Safe 'n sound. I didn't even rummage in it, and you've gotta know that was tempting."

"Good girl." Tony hid his relief. Not that his belongings were much to rummage through—but that was exactly it. He could just envision all Abby would read into that, when, really, it just meant he liked to travel light. Okay, so, granted, maybe a lack of cash had played a role, but even if he could've afforded some nicer clothes, he was going for the inconspicuous look these days. The regular brands of clothes he liked were hardly that. Besides, the hobo look had been growing on him.

Abby was staring at him intently, as if she could bore into his skull and retrieve his memories for all the time he'd been gone. She didn't mention how light the duffel had been, but she begged the question with her eyes, anyways.

"I'll tell you all about it sometime."

"No you won't. But I'll figure it out, anyway."

"Well, while you're figuring, I'm gonna use the head."

"These, first," Abby demanded, holding out two pills. "They're just to help with the pain. Ducky's word on it." She cut Tony off when he opened his mouth to speak. "And don't even try the I'm-fine routine, Mister. You were hit by a car."

"Was gonna say yes ma'am." Tony gave a sloppy salute. He used the dregs of the orange juice to down them.

"Good boy." Abby removed the tray.

Out of range of prying eyes at last, Tony sagged against the bathroom door for a full minute, groaning inwardly.

He realized now why he'd chosen the coward's way out last time. None of them were going to make any part of leaving easy.

* * *

DiNozzo came into kitchen, hair still damp from showering, a scowl on his face. The scowl Gibbs had expected, but not the still unshaven beard.

The fugitive look didn't sit right on Tony. Beard, unkempt hair—longer than Tony usually kept it—and blood-shot eyes all worked to make him look younger, and not older. Vulnerable was probably not the look Tony was aiming for, but it was the end result.

Gibbs studied Tony openly, not flinching from the contest. He didn't like the beard—it reminded him of some of the rougher undercover work DiNozzo had done. Tony had looked haggard then, too.

Trading stare for stare, Tony stuck his chin out, as if to highlight his disheveled appearance and say "See? Not conforming back to 'normal.' No way, no how," like a teenager, flaunting a new tattoo he'd gotten without Dad's permission.

Gibbs still didn't back down, but he wasn't going to start the trouble, either.

Finally, Tony said with thin civility, "My compliments to the chef."

Gibbs resumed his circular motion with the towel, drying the pan he held, without looking at it. Finished, he set it aside and picked up a plate.

"Where's Abby?" Tony inquired not-casually, looking around like he expected Ducky, Abby, and the rest of the team all to be lurking somewhere, ready to pop out and ambush him.

"Shopping."

Tony glanced around a little more, then seemed satisfied that they were momentarily alone. "You didn't tell them."

It wasn't actually a question—and, besides, Tony had the look of a man with more than one rehearsed accusation up his sleeve. Gibbs waited, drying the dishes.

"How could you _not tell them_?" Tony hissed. When Gibbs didn't answer that, either, he reached breaking point. "I suppose you've let Abby advertise it all over, huh? Tony's back. Ziva and McGee'll come waltzing through the door any minute, grinning from ear to ear. Happy day; Tony came to his senses." He laughed caustically at the pun. He took a step closer, full of accusation. "I should never have come back. I should've known you'd pull something like this."

Gibbs set the plate down, leaning against the counter. Under the anger, he could read in Tony the same animal-fear from last night, a flight-response Tony was holding at bay.

"I'm not doing your dirty work for you, DiNozzo."

Tony's expression turned to stone. "Calling Abby—"

"—Ducky called Abby."

"You should've _stopped_ him. I came here because I thought I owed you an explanation. I came here because I thought—"

"—that I'd just smile, nod, and send you your way with an 'apology accepted' to clear your conscience?" Gibbs growled.

"Yeah," Tony returned with a cooler level of righteous anger. "Yeah, I thought you might understand. You, of all people, _should_ understand."

Gibbs knew that DiNozzo had the right to feel betrayed on some level. Gibbs did understand that overpowering urge to do whatever it took to keep people you cared about safe. He knew what it was like to fail to do so, too.

"You can still walk out of here."

"I intend to."

"After you tell Abby. Face-to-face."

"I don't have to rationalize this to you, or anyone."

Gibbs moved to block his way before he could leave. "You're not doing that to her again." He had to know what it had done to Abby, in particular, to have Tony walk out on them like that, leaving nothing more personal than a note of explanation, and a vague explanation at that.

Tony swore at Gibbs and the world in general with plenty of feeling, until he seemed to have exhausted his supply of words, and his shoulders slumped in defeat. He whispered hoarsely, "I didn't enjoy it—I _don't_ enjoy it, Boss."

"Well, no, DiNozzo. Didn't think you did."

Tony slowly raised gaze from floor level to somewhere around Gibbs' chest, as if too tired to raise it further. "You think you understand, but you don't. Carlin is—" he stopped. "Who I am now, it changes a whole lot of things."

"Yeah, I got that," Gibbs said quietly, trying to get Tony to meet his eyes again, but finding only avoidance.

Tony shook his head. "I don't think you do, Boss. You're just going to have to trust me on it. In the long run…"

The door opened, followed by the telling clomp of platform shoes, and Tony hung his head.

"I don't think I _can_ tell her, Boss," he said, almost low enough that Gibbs couldn't hear.

Gibbs stepped out of his path, giving his good shoulder a brief touch as he passed, "There's an easy solution for that, DiNozzo."

* * *

Tony was surprised to find that Abby hadn't, in fact, called Ziva or McGee. He probably shouldn't have been surprised. While Abby might be enthusiastic, she was also sensitive to other people's needs. If she didn't guess the root of Tony's hesitancy, she at least seemed to sense his need for a low-level entry back into "normal"—even if she did drop not-so-subtle hints, going on about how glad Ziva and McGee would be to know he was okay.

It was with a dazed resignation that Tony endured a day of coddling from Ducky and Abby, and watchful scrutiny from Gibbs. Apparently, he shouldn't have chosen a Friday evening to drop by: none of them had any place to be that Saturday, other than Ducky, who left briefly to make some arrangements for his mother to be looked after.

Even if he refused to go back to bed, Tony obediently lounged on the couch for the better part of the day, and endured several more paranoid check-ups from Ducky. Just as Abby had been so adamant to point out, Ducky, too, was concerned with his drop in weight, and kept on talking about "compromised immune systems" and "scarred lungs," elaborating on possible complications of cracked ribs, and all the abuse his body had obviously been taking. Endure the poking and prodding Tony might, but he refused to take the hint when Ducky tried to pry details out of him. Whatever he'd said about Carlin the evening of his arrival, it was fairly obvious Gibbs had passed every word of _it_ on to Ducky, if nothing else.

But while Abby coddled, and Ducky gently chided, Tony made his plans. Gibbs was wrong if he thought he'd convinced Tony that staying was the right thing to do. Gibbs didn't know—Gibbs couldn't know—how badly Tony _wanted_ to stay. Tony wouldn't have recommended the lifestyle he'd been leading for anyone, but you grew numb to it after a while. Gibbs didn't know how painful it was to come back even for this brief time—to peek at his old life through a keyhole, and then turn around a walk away from it.

The thought of disappointing and wounding Abby weighed heavily on him, but he knew if he was going to be successful he was going to have to work fast. Maybe if she couldn't forgive him it would be for the best, anyway. He was walking out on her without a good-bye, for a second time, and even if it was for her good he wouldn't blame her for hating him.

Gibbs' disappointment was something Tony only thought of in a sidelong manner. Yeah, he was a coward, and he'd admit it. Really, after what he'd been through in the last months, it wasn't that hard to own up to the fact. Pride was a slippery thing to hold on to when your whole life could be contained in a duffel bag.

He added a few of Abby's gifts to his inventory: a sweater, more in-tune with his old way of dressing (it was bemusing to realize Abby, with her Goth tastes, knew his own tastes well enough to shop for him), and a pair of dark wash jeans without holes or tears.

There was the watch, too. Tony had tried to refuse it. Abby had presented it along with the clothes, but Tony knew whose idea it had been—he'd felt Gibbs' observation, known it was his boss who'd noted the need, and felt a confusion of anger and gratitude because of it. It wasn't a cheap watch, either. Not a Rolex, but still quality. The kind of thing Tony would've picked out for himself.

They all knew him too well.

When he'd shied away from accepting the watch, Abby had looked at him with eyes a little too-bright, and pleaded: "Please, Tony? It's not much, but we've all missed you so much, and there was such a long time where we couldn't do anything at all, and… Please?"

Like you could really say no to _that_.

Tony ran a thumb over the cool metal at his wrist. The last time he'd had his own watch had been before Carlin had taken him. Funny how it was the small things—or the lack of them—that made you feel helpless. He hadn't even known the time of day, or the date, and Carlin's refusal to answer those simplest of questions had enraged him, making him feel small and futile, and like the raging beast, all at once.

Well, tonight this raging beast was breaking loose again. Tony listened to the house settle, and watched the clock, waiting for his moment.

* * *

_To Be Continued_


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

**

* * *

**

Tony had never really been a morning person. Getting used to getting up early for the job didn't mean you _liked_ mornings. Partly, he supposed, he'd just never really stopped to pay attention; when he was up early, it was usually with a purpose.

Lately, though, he'd acquired a taste for that brief space of time, when the sky was just turning from black to inky-blue, and the scramble of mainstream life hadn't yet begun. There was a loneliness in walking the sidewalks without any encounters, but it was an intense loneliness that seemed to come with a spark of adrenaline. Being alone felt the most freeing right at dawn, with the road a deserted and open invitation.

It had been an adrenaline rush in itself, getting out of Gibbs' house without getting caught—sneaking out, like he was a kid running away from home. Thankfully, Gibbs wasn't the type to let door hinges get squeaky. Tony had still almost managed to give himself away, bumping his thigh (the one already bruised up from the accident) on the edge of the table in his fumbling, and just caught himself short of making his pain known to the rest of the house.

Call it superstition of Gibbs and his "spidey-sense," but Tony hadn't really expected to make it. It was a crowning moment of achievement, even if his stomach refused to admit it, and ruined the moment by making like a rock, sitting heavy and uncomfortable in his middle. As if his aching ribs weren't making it hard enough to breathe.

Tony stopped at the corner of an intersection, ambivalent as to his direction, and preparing to toss a coin, when he saw the dog making a bee-line straight at him, and he smiled.

"So I still haven't managed to shake you, huh?"

She seemed tired, tail managing a brief wag as she rested her weight against his leg, as if to wait on his decision. In a pathetically needy way, Tony was relieved to see her. After all, they'd come a long ways together.

_The dog was lean in a way that might have been graceful, were it not so painfully obvious she was half starved-to-death. For that very reason, she looked more petite than she probably really was._

_Tony hadn't had anything to offer her, either—just a scratch behind the ears. He didn't make a habit of petting stray dogs; he was more prone to shoo them off. But the first thing he'd really seen was her eyes: brown, soft, mournful eyes that still had that certain puppy look. _

_Not paying attention to where he was going, Tony had been headed down the alley, head bent. It was the type of narrow short-cut respectable people avoided, mostly because of down-and-outers. Kinda like him, then._

_And there the dog was, staring at him with more soulfulness than Tony would've attributed to a dog, much less an un-groomed street reject. He'd put his hand out for her to sniff, unsure why he did it, and expecting her to ignore him, or growl. Instead, she'd padded over to him, tail wagging in languid hope that made Tony wish he hadn't just finished off the last of the jerky._

"_Hey girl," he'd said, daring his nonexistent audience to laugh at him for showing a little compassion to a creature who'd never graduated from life's school of hard knocks. He could little afford to drop the tough guy act these days, but just then he couldn't bring himself to care. _

_She was filthy, and petting her was no treat, but, what with the happy little noises of pleasure she was making, Tony decided another layer of grime on his hands wasn't too much of a sacrifice. _

_She'd followed him for two days, even though he couldn't spare more than a bite or two at meal-time._

_The third morning he'd gone into a small grocery store, on a whim springing for dog food—buy one can, get one free. When he'd come back out, the dog was gone._

_He'd decided then that he really needed to get rid of his stupid charitable impulses._

_His better impulses thus given the figurative slap in the face, he'd almost thrown the food offering at a wall. Considering the money he'd just spent, he thought better of it and tossed them in the duffel. After all, he might wind up needing it later, himself. Carlin would've approved, he thought, with a mirthless chuckle._

_The better part of a week passed, and the cans of dog food tempted him to throw them every time he opened his bag. Then, one day, the traitor showed her face again._

"_Get out of here."_

_She stopped at his words, mid-limping step, looking—if a dog could—apologetic. Tony noticed the blood on her right foreleg, and let out a low oath._

"_Someone get you with a baseball bat, or something?" She seemed to shrink back uncertainly at his tone, so he changed it: "Hey, look, c'mere. I'm all fresh outta baseball bats, myself. And I don't hit a dog when she's down, anyway, even if I _am_ ticked-off."_

_She obeyed, with a hesitant wag of her tail, and a small whimper._

_Her fed her a can of dog food, wrapped her leg as best as he could with an old sock that had outlived its usefulness, and she fell asleep that night with her head in his lap._

_From then on, theirs was an unspoken partnership. They'd travel together one day, or sometimes several days at a time, and then she'd be gone. Tony would get another deal on dog food, and each time she found him she grew a little bolder, until she'd bound up without preamble, licking his hand and sniffing the bag in expectation._

_Tony didn't even _like_ dogs. She was really only a mangy, unwanted mutt, responding to an ounce of kindness. Maybe they were birds of a feather (another idea Carlin would've nodded at)._

_At any rate, even ships in the night had to pause sometime, and notice each other._

Tony rested his hand on the dog's head, stroking stilled as he sensed, more than heard, someone behind him.

He'd been so careful, Carlin couldn't possibly have found him. _Not again._ He couldn't go back there. Primal desperation told him to flee. Dignity—that slippery pride he still hadn't quite lost a hold of—made him turn, fisting his hands, ready to fight. He wished he'd taken one of Gibbs' guns. There was, of course, the Swiss pocketknife in the outside pocket of his bag. That was sure to save him.

But it wasn't Carlin, after all. Tony didn't need to turn around before his Gibbs-radar told him he was in a whole different kind of trouble. Carlin might've been better.

"Should've known better."

"Yeah," Gibbs replied frankly, "you should've."

Tony waited for a head slap that never came; just when he'd begun to relax, something dropped around his shoulders. He started, shivered, only realizing how cold he'd been as the warmth of the jacket blocked out the cold. Shifting his bag from hand to hand, he slid his arms into the coat's sleeves. It was somewhat trench-coat style in being knee-length, but the material was a soft, dark-dye wool. It fit him like it'd been tailored specifically.

"Nice," Tony dubbed it, lamely. He turned to look at Gibbs. "Guess you're not gonna let me compound my sins, huh? I suppose I was hoping you'd count our conversation the other night as an official face-to-face goodbye. But if you want me to say it…" He looked Gibbs in the eye. "Goodbye, Boss."

Gibbs' expression was unreadable. He looked down at the dog, made a coaxing noise between his teeth.

The double-crosser—she came to Gibbs, like all animals seemed to, with instinctive trust. He petted her for a minute, before straightening again. When Gibbs shouldered past Tony to take the lead, she followed, looking back a little at Tony, as if to say, "Come on."

Tony _did_ come on, with angry stride. "Gibbs, you can't just barge in and—" He had to quicken his stride to draw up beside his boss. He didn't ask what Gibbs was doing, as it was fairly obvious he'd gotten it into his head he was invited on this little trip. It was one presumption too many. "Boss, this is crazy."

Gibbs stopped so abruptly, Tony almost rammed into him. "Yup," he agreed, taking Tony's duffel from him before Tony's fingers could react and hold on tighter.

"Hey," he protested, with all the outrage of a dweeb getting his lunch stolen—and as quickly subdued by Gibbs as said dweeb would've been by the lead jock at school.

Gibbs' steely look was a clear "_yes I can_."

Tony swallowed his intimidation, and made a grab for his bag. His ribs definitely didn't appreciate the movement. He cradled his side with an involuntary exhalation of pain. "Pick on a guy while he's down, why don'tcha?" he growled reproachfully.

"You done?" Gibbs asked patiently.

"No," Tony said petulantly. He was beginning to wish he hadn't accepted the coat. With a sinking feeling, he realized Gibbs had brought along a pack of his own—an obviously well-stocked backpack slung over his shoulder. "Just a twinge. M'_fine_."

"Not reassuring coming out of your mouth, DiNozzo." Gibbs took the lead again.

Tony resented Gibbs' tactics: the dog was one thing, but now he'd taken Tony's duffel hostage as well.

"Where, exactly, are we going?" he demanded, hurrying after.

"Out of the cold, for starters."

"Boss, I'm not even started for the day, it's only—"

"—Let's get one thing clear, DiNozzo," Gibbs said, without stopping. "From here on out, compromising your health needlessly is not an option."

"Let's get _another_ thing clear, while we're at it: my health is not being a _compromised_ by a little early morning stroll," Tony hissed, hating the way his breathing was making a wheezing sound as it formed puffs of white in the gradually brightening light of near-dawn.

"Ducky would say otherwise."

"Well I didn't ask for Ducky's prognosis, and I didn't ask for your company. I've managed quite nicely without a nursemaid, thank you."

"Yeah," Gibbs' gaze gave him a sidelong once-over, "I can see that."

With a burst of angry energy, Tony got ahead of Gibbs, and stepped in his path. He'd had enough of this. Sometimes Gibbs was entitled to tell him off—okay, so maybe he was entitled a lot of the time—but now was not one of those times. "Stop treating me like a kid, Gibbs. Stop belittling me. I've been learning to make it on my own since the time I learned to walk—and order room service." He smiled thinly. "So you can take your concern," he shrugged out of the coat, inwardly reluctant to give up its warmth, but willing to sacrifice that for the triumph of shoving it at Gibbs, "and take that, and give me back what's mine."

The dog was trying to poke its head in between them, nudging Tony's leg in concern.

"I'm just taking what's _mine_."

Tony really hated it when Gibbs went cryptic. "What? What does that even _mean_?" He shook his head dismissively. "You know what? It doesn't even matter." He lunged, ignoring the "twinge" in his side this time, and got a hold of the duffel bag's handle. Wresting that handle away from Gibbs was another matter. He gritted his teeth, knowing it was a tug-of-war he'd lose, but stubbornness refusing to let him give up.

"You're running to protect me."

Tony really hated it when Gibbs _wasn't_ cryptic. He winced at the bluntness, and accuracy, of the insight. Abby, and the team, had been a given, but he'd been hoping Gibbs wouldn't pry further. He'd been hoping Gibbs wouldn't pry at all. But what did it really matter if he knew? He'd lost too much face in front of Gibbs, especially over the last year, to try too hard to save any at this late hour.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm protecting you." Tony narrowed his eyes. "And don't try and tell me you wouldn't do the same."

Gibbs smiled. "I am doing the same."

"What?" Tony felt some of his defiance lost to confusion, which made him even angrier with frustration.

Gibbs gave an exasperated shake of his head, still smiling maddeningly. "I told you, DiNozzo, this thing works both ways. You don't get _dibs_ on protecting me. As a matter of fact, you don't have any rights, there. Unless I _am_ still your Guide."

Tony opened and closed his mouth, too surprised by the content, as well as the volume, of the words Gibbs had just said.

_You'll always be my Guide, Boss_, was definitely too trite to say, but, apparently, Tony only had to think it.

Gibbs knew he'd won another round. Tony made a note to ask Sandburg, sometime, if telepathy was some secret Guide-power he'd failed to mention. It was probably just a Gibbs-power.

Cowed, but not quite out of pride, yet, Tony fell into step besides Gibbs. It was embarrassing to have his boss playing caddy. It was embarrassing to have been caught red-handed, like this. It was embarrassing to have no leg left to stand on, as far as argument went.

It was also really cold, and Tony was developing a stitch in his side. And there was absolutely _no way_ he was going to stop walking before Gibbs did, or ask for the coat back.

Tony didn't really pay attention to the direction Gibbs chose, but eventually they came to a park he thought was vaguely familiar. Or maybe it was just the park benches, lining the sidewalk. Tony counted them, absently, putting them to double use by using the sight of each bench to measure his breathing, forcing himself to inhale deeper than usual each time they passed one. Even if it hurt his ribs, the extra oxygen did help a little with the stubborn way his stomach muscles were cramping up.

Bench four. Wheeze in, wheeze out. Bench five. Keep wheezing. Bench six… Bench six seemed stuck, until Tony realized it was he himself who'd stopped, a hand at his elbow stalling him, guiding him to sit on the bench instead of count it.

"Seven…"

Gibbs, apparently, didn't care about making it to bench seven. "Breathe, DiNozzo."

"I was," Tony said defensively, giving a particularly loud wheeze—effect ruined a bit by a cough—to prove his point. He closed his eyes in bliss, and annoyance, when the warmth of the coat settled around his shoulders again. He would take it off and shove it back at Gibbs. In a minute.

"You shouldn't be on the street like this," Gibbs growled, the kind of growl Tony recognized as Gibbs' version of concern.

"M'not. I'm sitting on bench six."

"You always name them?"

"A number's not a name. 'Sides, I usually alphabetize." Maybe it wouldn't be so bad having Gibbs with. If they could avoid the Carlins and Averys of the world, that was. Tony relaxed against the back of then bench, shoulder-to-shoulder, and added languidly, "I brought a coat, you know." The slap to the back of his head was just hard enough to jar Tony's head forward. "I appreciate it, Boss."

"Good. Ready?"

Tony squinted tiredly at Gibbs, knowing he wasn't asking if he were ready to move on toward bench seven. "The dog, Boss… She needs me." Which was a pitiful lie.

"What dog?"

She wasn't in sight, and Tony sighed, his last excuse a fail. Gibbs had probably been sending telepathic prompts to her, the little turn-coat…

Sighing, Tony mused aloud, "Abby's never going to forgive me, is she?" Judging by the amount of light in the sky, now, Tony didn't have to look at his watch to figure they wouldn't be able to make it back to Gibbs' house without Abby discovering their absence.

"For what?"

"Uh—leaving? You know, the whole abandoning thing?"

"I left a note." Gibbs was tranquil.

"Let me guess: we both had the incurable urge for a midnight stroll."

"Something like that."

"You really think she'll buy that?"

Gibbs shrugged.

Tony sighed again, not entirely unpleasant resignation stealing over him. "So, you gonna say 'I told you so,' or what?"

Gibbs smirked, which was as close as he'd come to doing just that. "Nah."

* * *

_To Be Continued..._

(And thank you, all you wonderful reviewers! :D)


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

**

* * *

**

Abby was waiting to ambush them when they entered. Something about the fierceness of her hug told Tony that, at the least, Gibbs' note hadn't been entirely reassuring.

If she suspected the truth, however, she was more interested in pelting him with questions, and not giving him the chance to answer.

"You're _freezing_," she exclaimed, rubbing his arms. "How did you get so cold? Right, stupid question; you decided to go for walk at six o'clock in the morning. Or were you up earlier?" She made a disgruntled noise as she steered Tony into the living room. "Never mind. Sit."

Tony could _feel_ Gibbs gloating in the background. He'd known all along Tony wasn't going to get off scot-free.

"Ducky is so totally going to kill you for this," Tony mumbled, sulky, and he hardly knew at whom, "and I am so totally going to let him."

Before actually letting him sit on the sofa, Abby divested him of the coat.

Tony sat obediently, and didn't even protest when she wrapped a blanket around his shoulders. "Hot cocoa's next, right?" The mocking smile froze on his lips at her dead-serious expression. "Ah, that is, I'll be _lucky_ if hot cocoa is next. Or…bread and water. Tepid, brackish water, even."

Abby was not amused. "Anthony DiNozzo, Ducky says rest, and so you go for a walk in the middle of the night? What on earth possessed you?"

"Actually, it was late night—or early morning—if we're being specific… Which we're _not_. Because that would be entirely unnecessary." Tony resisted the urge to duck his head under the heat of her glare. "What possessed me? Ah—sheer folly?" he tried hopefully. Sometimes you could worm your way out of these things by being openly repentant.

Abby's face crumpled. Tony hated it when she looked at him like that. If her hugs could make you feel like the world's best person, her reproach could make you feel like the scum of the earth. This was the look he'd been dreading, the reason he hadn't been able to screw up his courage and say a face-to-face goodbye.

"You were leaving us again, weren't you?" she not so much asked as accused, but in a small voice. She tilted her chin, and looked briefly past Tony—at Gibbs, Tony assumed (there was no way he was going to look for himself right then). "But the Bossman stopped you."

"He would've found his way back on his own, Abbs."

And Tony knew Gibbs was right.

Abby was good at coming up with excuses to invite people over to his house. Not that Gibbs minded. Despite what Tony might think about the presumptions Gibbs had made so far, he wouldn't have called up McGee or Ziva unless he thought Tony was ready to be set upon by the rest of the team.

Abby, though—she could get away with: "_Please_ Tony? I hate lying to them, and they're always asking if I've heard anything from you, and it's really hard not to tell them, 'cause they're going to be so happy to know you're back, and they'll want to see you when they know, and since we've been getting together pretty often they're going to get suspicious if I keep putting them off—I mean, I'm usually the one who _initiates_ get-togethers, and—"

Gibbs had heard the poorly-concealed disappointment in the way Tony asked, "Oh. So I'd be interrupting the teams' Saturday-night college football viewing then, huh? Or whatever you guys do on Saturday nights these days."

Abby had socked him the arm, but gently. "Don't be an idiot, Tony. We haven't had a _team_ night since you disappeared. It couldn't be a team night without you. We've had a lot of moping marathons, though."

"Moping…marathons?"

"Yeah. That's what you do at a 'party' where no one's in the mood to party, because one of your best friends is in danger, and you can't do anything about it."

"Oh," Tony had responded, unintelligently, chagrined, and trying not to sound too pleased.

"You getting the picture yet?" Abby demanded. "We were worried _sick_ about you, Mister. The least you can do is let me invite them over for a real, honest-to-God _team_ night. It's about time."

The vaguely pleased look was still on Tony's face, making Gibbs smile a little as he watched them from the kitchen. Some things only Abby could get away with.

Tony cleared his throat. "Well, if you really think they'd want to come…"

"Have you been listening to a word I've been saying?" Abby reprimanded fondly. "They'll probably be here hours early."

The pleased look was still there when later that evening when—an hour and half early—Ziva and McGee came to the door, just minutes apart, as if their internal alarms had gone off in tandem, impatience winning out.

McGee gave Tony a brief, awkward hug-cum-slap-on-the-back, manly and acceptable to both, saying soberly, "It's…really good to see you, Tony." Tony even responded in-kind, with a level of near-seriousness: "It isn't half-bad to see your face again, either, Probie."

Ziva had a more awkward time of it, at least initially. She stared at Tony for a long moment, and Gibbs could see her cataloging the changes in him. Although he'd shaved now, under the scruff there were still the too-hollow planes of his face, and the sunken look to his eyes. After the first moment, however, Ziva showed no inhibitions about embracing him—prolonging it, perhaps, a little beyond both her and Tony's comfort-zone, but not letting it stop her.

When she pulled away, it was to push into his hands a bag of chips she'd brought, saying decisively, "You are too thin."

Abby surveyed it all with the satisfaction of a mother hen with all her chicks gathered under her wings.

McGee had brought along a small TV, which they set up in the living room, dragging in a kitchen chair to set it on. Not even Tony was particularly interested in the game, but it made a good excuse for hotdogs and chips, and Abby used her considerable enthusiasm to get everyone involved in playing the several board-games she'd brought.

No one asked Tony where he'd been, or what had happened to him, but Gibbs observed McGee and Ziva pausing periodically to watch Tony. They might not put it into words, but the questions were there, in concerned glances and exchanged looks.

Maybe they'd all been expecting him to come back more of wreck—a shipwrecked Sentinel, senses gone haywire. The thing was, he _was_ shipwrecked, and the more hastily-flashed smiles they saw DiNozzo put on—like armor, worn from a need not to be seen _not_ smiling—the more apparent it became. Tony had always been good at playing his cards close to the vest, locking up emotion, and throwing the key away.

Still, going by Abby's permanent grin at the end of the night, she thought her idea had been a success, and Gibbs couldn't disagree.

In the middle of the clean-up process, Tony fell asleep on the couch with his head tilted back at an uncomfortable angle. He was snoring softly when Ziva and McGee slipped out.

Abby, sitting on the floor, putting the last of the game-pieces back in their boxes, looked at him and made one of those noises she generally reserved for cute baby animals.

"He looks all peaceful, almost like our old Tony, again. Not that we won't take him any way we can get him." Closing the lid on the game, Abby hugged the box to her stomach like a stuffed-animal. "Our Sentinel's gonna be okay, huh, Gibbs."

Gibbs watched her—and Tony—from his vantage point, leaning against the kitchen doorframe. Abby didn't know how much that very question plagued him. She didn't need to know. "He will be, if he knows what's good for him."

"You tell him, Bossman," Abby said softly, hugging her box with fresh contentment. She considered Tony again. "I can tell you now, though: sitting at that angle all night is definitely _not_ gonna be one of those good-for-him things."

They didn't bother waking him, first. Gibbs took one arm, and Abby slipped his other arm around her neck, the two of them pulling him to his feet without consulting him. Tony made a faint sound of protest, but his feet cooperated clumsily with their efforts, the pain pill Abby'd coaxed him into taking apparently putting him in a malleable temper. Or else he was just too loopy to know exactly what was going on.

Halfway up the stairs, he did become semi-cognizant, enough to try to take on one of the stairs on his own. It was a good thing they didn't let go.

With Tony already dressed comfortably in sweatpants (a sly Abby-suggestion, made after Tony'd come home shivering that morning, and one with foresight as it turned out), they simply turned back the covers and deposited one drugged-out Sentinel onto the bed. Abby smoothed the covers over him with more mother-hen fussiness.

Tony's eyes were closed again within seconds, breathing steadying out into the rhythm of the profoundly dead-to-the-world.

"That second _pain_ pill Ducky gave you for him—it have something a little extra to it, Abbs?"

Abby was smug. "I'll never tell."

* * *

Tony hated it when he dreamed about water.

He was always dreaming about the ocean, which, in theory, sounded nice. But he never had the kind of tropical-paradise dream that took place on sunny beaches under blue skies. That would've been one thing. No, he was always _in_ the ocean, and wearing, impractically, water-logged, heavy clothes.

Best of all, when he wound up adrift in the ocean during a dream, he always seemed to have some awareness that he _was_ dreaming. Again, in theory, that should have been a relief. A relief, because when he swam in the ocean during his dreams, he could never see the shore—or, if he could, it was forever just out of reach, no matter how long he tried to get there.

Tonight's ocean was throwing a full-blown temper tantrum, black masses of clouds throwing everything into a moonless night.

Tony was pretty sure he'd been struggling against choppy waves for hours. He wasn't sure if the line on the horizon was land or just a row of more oncoming clouds, but he was fixed on his course, in either case. One direction was as good as another when you didn't have a clue where you were, or how you'd gotten there.

He had the distinct feeling that he was being followed by someone, even though every glance around showed him wide-open waters. Whoever it was, he knew they'd get him if he ever stopped swimming.

Of course, if he did stop swimming, he'd have drowning to contend with, too.

So he swam, spray hitting him the face, and with ice for blood, and lead for bones. He was pretty sure he wasn't being melodramatic in drawing analogies—but, then, his brain felt like mush, too, so he couldn't vouch for his judgment.

Every one of his senses—every stupid "hyper-active" one of 'em—was bound and determined to drive him mad. No matter what Sandburg and Abby said, there were times when super-powers just weren't all they were cut out to be.

The wind was shrieking. Yeah, that was another stupid analogy that definitely fit right then. The noise made him wish he had an extra pair of hands, just to cover his ears with. _Don't listen to it, DiNozzo, _he told himself, a thousand times. But he couldn't stop. He grasped at images in his head, trying to conjure that mental "dial" Sandburg had tried to teach him about. He found it, but his control was sloppy, and in the end he simply put all his energy into one big twist, and—_bam_—just like that, the shrieking in his ears was gone. Of course, along with the shrieking had gone the sound of the waves, and everything else. It was worth the small surge of panic, though, to get rid of the wind.

Now he could focus on swimming. And on telling himself a thousand times not to pay attention to how the waves pounded him with hundreds of glass-shards of spray, over and over again. Or how his sodden clothing was beginning to chafe like sandpaper on his frozen skin. He searched for the dial that belonged to his sense of touch, finding the image more quickly, and latching on, jerking it down desperately.

It was strange, to say the least, not to feel pain, and know it was there. Tony knew which muscles to use to continue stroking the water, but the ocean's cold touch no longer affected him. It made him feel giddy to have mastered another challenge the elements had thrown at him. _Take _that_. I can deal with anything you can throw at me. _It felt good to taunt back.

He should've known better.

The wave caught him square in the face, like a punch. Although he didn't feel pain, the blow stunned him, salt water filling his mouth, and blind panic filling his mind as he began to sink. Disoriented, he flailed numb limbs in the direction he hoped was _up_.

Without hearing, breaking the surface was a confusing process; he blinked a few times, gagging, treading water, trying to see shore.

Even the far-off line on the horizon had vanished—or else, the rain was simply making it too obscure. He almost hadn't noticed the rain, and he found he couldn't dredge up the will to care about it, either. It wasn't like he could get wetter.

It wasn't like he was going to make it to land, either.

_Just a dream. A stupid dream, _he reminded himself. The hopelessness felt real enough, though, and he didn't have a dial for _that_.

After another few minutes of struggling, a realization began to dawn on him. If this was a dream, then all he had to do was wake up. _Duh, DiNozzo. You really are brilliant, you know that? You could've figured _that_ one out a while back._

He stopped to tread water, ignoring the sensation that that unknown someone was about to catch up with him, and considered the all-important _how_ of waking up from this. When telling himself to _snap out of it _didn't get him anywhere, he decided the only recourse left him was to ignore the situation until it went away, and returned him to reality.

_Here goes._

He stopped swimming altogether, and let himself sink. At first it was peaceful, a relief, to let the waters roll over his head without fighting them, and to allow darkness to take his vision.

No sound. No sensation. No sight.

And then, lack of oxygen hit him, too, and his body rebelled against it, even while what remained of his rational mind tried to reassure him that it was only temporary. He'd wake up, any minute.

_Any minute. C'mon, c'mon… _He wanted to cry out, as the pressure around him began to become unbearable, his lungs burning, pleading for air. _A dream. Just a dream. _But what if it wasn't?

Tony woke to the sound of himself finally crying out—an inarticulate noise of blind terror—as he jack-hammered up in bed.

"_DiNozzo_."

He almost hit Gibbs, only recognizing the shadowy figure too late. Thankfully, Marines weren't trained to have slow reactions to assault. Tony's fist was firmly belayed by a strong grip around his wrist.

Tony grasped for awareness. Even knowing the dream had been a dream, it was hard coming all the way back, especially with Gibbs watching you. His ears still felt plugged, his sense of touch tingling. Tony knew the feeling well enough to know that, at least for a while, he'd had the dials turned dangerously low, and _not_ just in his dream. He had a bad feeling Gibbs hadn't just said his name the one time.

"I didn't realize it was you, Boss."

Gibbs let go of Tony's wrist. "Well, yeah, DiNozzo, I figured that."

"Thanks for, ah…waking me up. That was sure some dream."

"I didn't."

"Come again?"

Tony could barely see Gibbs features in the moonlight, but he was guessing Gibbs wasn't in a relenting mood. It was usually a good guess with Gibbs.

"Couldn't wake you up."

"Oh." _Wait for it, wait for it… _But Gibbs didn't ask the standard question that Tony was expecting. Gibbs never really did what you were expecting. Trying to keep his panting to a discreet rasping noise—no piece of cake in the quiet dead of night—Tony goaded, "Is this where you ask me if I'm all right? Or do you ask me if I wanna talk about it, first?"

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"I was swimming. And then I wasn't. That about sums it up."

"You all right?"

Tony swallowed at the open concern he heard. Gibbs showed concern for his people in a lot of ways, so it wasn't like him being concerned came as a surprise. Tony was just more accustomed to receiving Gibbs' concern head-slap style. This was like being thrown a curve-ball. He didn't know what to do with it. In the end, he said, "Sure," an uninspired answer he wouldn't have expected to convince the least-discerning with, much less Gibbs.

Tony waited for a reprimand as the sweat rolled down his back, and his gasping finally reached a quieter level.

"Is this where you tell me to try and get some more sleep?"

"_Could_ you sleep?" Gibbs asked mildly.

"Not going to try." Quite frankly, he had a bit of a grudge against sleep right then.

"Coffee?"

"You're not supposed to offer coffee to someone with insomnia."

"Tea?" Gibbs offered, not missing a beat.

Tony ran a hand through his hair. "No way. Coffee."

Gibbs left, doubtless breaking another rule-of-thumb by leaving the insomniac with nightmares alone to regain his composure. Who made up these stupid rules anyways? Not Tony. He certainly had a lot of composure to regain, and appreciated the space more than Gibbs knew—or maybe not.

The aroma in the kitchen was almost enough to clear away the cobwebs in his head on its own, and the mug of coffee Gibbs handed him was as strong as Tony'd expected it to be. He drank it black, anyways.

"Me and sedatives, we don't mix to so good these days, Boss," he confessed, as he arrived at the dregs of his coffee, examining the bottom his mug.

"Ducky's just trying to help."

"I know."

Gibbs drank more coffee. "Duck'll understand."

"About the nightmares? Not telling him," Tony said mutinously. The last thing he needed was to give Ducky another thing to worry about with him.

Gibbs let it rest.

Tony gave the dregs a good swirl. This whole situation was reminding him a topic he'd meant to bring up earlier. "So. I was thinking, maybe I could start the apartment-hunt tomorrow."

"Nope."

Tony was really beginning to get fed up with Gibbs casually forbidding things he didn't actually have a say in. "You're not my boss anymore."

"Try again."

"I _quit_, Gibbs. And even if I hadn't, I think being AWOL the better part of three months might have earned me a little more than a slap on the wrist."

"Didn't hear anything about you being AWOL. According to Vance, you're still on leave."

"_What_?"

"Vacation. Sick leave. R 'n R. Whatever you want to call it, DiNozzo. You had a lot of time coming to you."

"You _assumed…_" Tony trailed off, gripped the mug-handle hard. The truth was, he'd just been considering the complications of getting back in the game—and wondering if it were even possible. It still stung his already much-battered pride to hear the facts keep stacking up, testifying to the fact that Gibbs had been _expecting_ him to come crawling back like this all along.

"I hoped," Gibbs said quietly, "and so did Abby. Which is why she's been keeping up your apartment for you."

Tony eased up on the mug-handle. "Boss…" Funny, he probably couldn't have stopped calling Gibbs that even if he _had_ been fired. Some habits died hard. "You don't suppose a Sentinel could go and get his head messed up beyond what his Guide could figure out? Theoretically, you know."

"Nope."

Okay, so maybe some of Gibbs' assumptions weren't so hard to live with.

* * *

_To Be Continued..._


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

**

* * *

**

Monday morning came too fast.

Tony guessed his apprehension must've shown, because Abby was full of encouragement, about how Director Vance just _had_ to see how much they needed Tony, and how Tony could take any re-evaluation thrown at him and pass with flying colors. Thing was, it wasn't a "no" he feared from Vance so much as a "yes." If Vance did say no, even Gibbs might have to see the impracticability of Tony staying.

Yeah, right. The sky would start caving in on them before that day came.

Really, it wasn't even the prospect of a visit to the director that was making Tony dread seeing how the day played out. Vance wasn't that scary. Gibbs, wearing his stubborn expression, _that_ was scary. Tony knew Gibbs intended to see this day's decisions went _his_ way.

"Boss," Tony said, hesitating in the bullpen, "maybe I should I go up alone."

McGee and Ziva, watching the exchange discreetly from behind their desks, now tried to look even more discreet.

Tony took Gibbs' stare to mean he wasn't a big fan of the going-it-alone proposition. Tony had always been quick on the uptake.

"Or…you could come with."

"Wouldn't want to intrude," Gibbs said with deceptive politeness.

Tony winced. He really deserved a chewing out. Here Gibbs was, bending over backwards for him, and in return Tony suddenly went shy on him. As if Gibbs didn't know more about what Tony had been through than Tony ever intended to tell Vance, as if Gibbs hadn't followed him on an impromptu early-morning walk, prepared to go all the way to nowhere right along with him—and as if Gibbs hadn't been woken up in the middle of the night because of Tony and his stupid, childish _nightmares_.

"No, ah, you wouldn't be. Intruding, that is," Tony backpedaled. "I would… I would appreciate it. Boss."

Gibbs nodded with a look that was approval enough for Tony.

Cynthia showed them right in.

"Welcome back, Agent DiNozzo," Vance greeted, nodding to Tony, and to Gibbs. "I'd ask you if you had a relaxing vacation, but quite frankly, I've seen you look better."

"I've seen me look better, too, Director," Tony agreed amiably. "Sometimes vacations are more trouble than they're worth."

"Have a seat." They did, and Vance sat back, fingers interlaced. "I'll be as to-the-point about this as possible. You're a good agent, DiNozzo, and you've proven yourself to be an asset, even in the light of recent…developments." He looked at Gibbs, who was looking meaningfully back, and humored him by adding, "Some might even say you've been a greater asset _because_ of those recent developments. God knows I'd like to make your return as simple as possible…"

"But I'm just too complicated for that," Tony supplied with a grin.

Vance smiled wryly. "Yes. I'm sailing uncharted waters, in your case. Sheppard started writing the unofficial rule-book for the situation, and now it looks like it's my job to add to it." Unlacing his fingers, he leaned forward, looking at Tony intently. "What happened?"

"Cliff-notes? There are creepier creeps than Avery out there."

"Name," Vance demanded.

"Carlin." Guessing what Vance's next question would be, Tony added, "He never gave me a first name. As a matter of fact, he hardly gave me the time of day. He did give me lots of advice, though."

"What kind of advice?"

Tony felt Gibbs too-knowing gaze on him—but, ignoring that, it wasn't as hard answering Vance's questions. They were necessary questions. Nothing personal. He could do that. "Oh, you know, nothing too surprising. He just wanted me to know I was a freak—but a useful freak. Apparently, he thinks I have a lot of potential as a Sentinel, and, in the right hands—_his _hands—I could live up to my calling: namely, to be of use to mankind. Of course, he's also a firm believer in strict Sentinel supervision, and made it very clear going off-leash in public was a big no-no. Don't want to scare the poor uninformed masses, after all."

"Is there a risk he might go public with what he knows about Sentinels?"

Tony was a bit taken aback by Vance's intensity. He'd been so caught up in listening to the sound of his own voice he hadn't noticed how the director had begun to bristle—almost as much as Gibbs.

"I'm…not sure," Tony said, suddenly uncertain. Being in close quarters with Gibbs in one of his prickly moods was bad enough, but with Vance looking prickly in addition, the room was beginning to feel close. "Like I said, the guy didn't give me much to go on, and my profiling skills only go so far. Carlin's paranoid about Sentinels; he was trying to teach me how to behave." He shrugged. "Would he warn the public? Who knows. You would think he might've have said something sooner, though, if he were going start informing the general public. A better question might be, would people _believe_ him?"

Vance stared into the middle distance for a moment, then shook his head. "I don't like it. Agent Gibbs, I want your team working on finding Carlin." Gibbs didn't look like he was about to argue, but Vance elaborated, always. "Granted, considering one of your own team's been the man's target, you'll be working a little close to home. However, I don't like the idea of bringing more people than necessary into the loop on this." He sighed heavily. "Also, there is Agent DiNozzo's reinstatement. Officially, you were never _out_ of a job, but after the ordeal you've been through I don't want you out in the field until you've undergone further reevaluation." He looked pointedly at Tony. "Rest. Make sure you're one-hundred-percent. I'm going to be relying heavily upon the advice of Special Agent Gibbs, and Doctor Mallard, in this, and it'll take their recommendation before I even consider letting you back on active duty. Understood?"

"Understood, Sir." Tony could tell there wasn't room for negotiation—and, honestly, it was more rule-bending than he'd expected from Vance.

"Good. There is also the issue of your protection, with Carlin still out there."

"I don't think—" Tony began, without quite knowing where he was going.

Gibbs interrupted, anyways. "—He's staying with me."

Vance considered, and Tony knew another non-negotiable decision had been made when he nodded. "It would simplify things if your team were willing to work as a protection detail."

"They're willing."

Tony tried not to scowl openly. It wasn't that he was exactly opposed to the idea, but after going lone-wolf for three months it was hard stand by and watch decisions being made over your head.

At least Tony could take some consolation in the fact that Gibbs' mood definitely looked to be improving.

* * *

It was funny how the smallest of privileges suddenly became disproportionately important after being denied them for weeks. Tony never thought he'd take so much pleasure in the simple task of going out for coffee. Oh, he knew Gibbs was, figuratively, breathing down his neck, and that if he were gone more than fifteen minutes he'd probably start getting phone-calls—and that Abby still didn't like the idea of Tony ever being on his own, even though it'd been almost two months since he'd returned, and Carlin still hadn't shown up.

Tony had gotten used to their concern, though, finding it wasn't actually all that hard to live with. Sure, at first, they'd all been a bit smothering in how they went about protecting him. He'd almost forgotten what the word "privacy" meant for a while. Hanging out at your boss's house, and having one or more of your co-workers continually at hand, hadn't left him with a whole lot of personal space. After a while, though, he began to realize that when they said they didn't mind hanging around they meant it, so he quit bothering to mind so much, either. Abby was certainly good at making protection detail—especially on the weekends—seem more like a sleep-over.

After the first three weeks, Gibbs and Ducky had been forced to admit he was ready for the reevaluation. Tony got the sense neither of them were happy about moving things to the next level, when they considered it "too soon," but thankfully Tony hadn't had to remind them that they couldn't baby him for ever. Gibbs had been helping him brush up on his shooting at the range, and he'd been back to the gym as soon as Ducky had given his ribs the go-ahead. Ziva'd still gone easy on him their first couple of rounds on the mat—but it was progress in a generally forward direction. Tony kept stubbornly at it, and it paid off; Vance had been satisfied with his performance, and he was officially back in the game.

And he'd been given permission to go to the coffee shop around the corner, three times now, without a chaperone. _That_ was what Tony called progress.

Tony was waiting at the pick-up counter for his order when he saw Fred.

Well, "Fred" was what Tony had named him, since the guy had never deigned to tell the Sentinel his real name. Fred hadn't talked all that much. He'd just done what Carlin told him to do, which mostly involved the grunt work of Sentinel-handling. Tony mostly remembered Fred for his finesse at shoving, and for his ability to look perpetually bored and angry at the same time.

Sure enough, Fred didn't look happy now, either.

Tony flipped open his cell and speed-dialed Gibbs, turning away to conceal his face from Fred, even while keeping track of him out of the corner of his eye. Fred didn't seem to be looking in Tony's direction, and Tony entertained the hope his presence here might actually be coffee-related. Yeah, Carlin just sent him on a donut-and-coffee run... Or maybe he wasn't working with Carlin at all, anymore.

"_DiNozzo."_

"Oh. Hi Boss. I think we might have company, after all," Tony said without preamble, surprising himself with how everyday he made the news sound. The businessman next to Tony, waiting for his coffee, probably thought Tony was talking about a favorite uncle.

"_Carlin's following you?"_

"Ah, no. He just sent Cousin Jimmy ahead." Tony rested an elbow on the counter, turning further to his left as Fred came up on his right, walking towards the cashier. Businessman was looking a tad too interested in Tony's conversation, and Tony gave him an overly chummy smile that made him clear his throat and look away. "That is, he said Jimmy was coming, but I'm beginning to think he might've gotten lost... No sense of direction, that kid. Besides, it's been a while since he saw the house. Probably doesn't even remember what it looks like."

"_Good. Stay low, DiNozzo. I'm on my way."_

"Relatives…" Businessman commented, casually, as Tony pocketed his cell. "Pain in the neck, huh?"

"You could say that again." _You have no clue. _Tony drummed his fingers on the table, weighing his options, and knowing he couldn't rush out without receiving his order and risk drawing attention to himself by being called back. Getting one of the employees to bellow "Mister DiNozzo, you forgot your order!" probably wasn't what Gibbs had had in mind by "staying low."

Businessman's order came first, and he left. To Tony's relief, his own order—beverages for Gibbs, McGee, and Ziva, as well as himself, arranged in one of those cardboard carrying-trays—came not long after, and he turned from the counter. Once outside, he could wait out of sight and follow Fred, and hope Gibbs caught up before Tony followed him far. With any luck Fred would lead them to Carlin.

"Hey, DiNozzo."

Tony stopped, balancing the tray in one hand, ready to reach for his gun with the other. He'd heard Fred say his name enough times—with a level of condescension that made him wince—to recognize his voice now, without needing to turn around. The mocking voice brought teased memories of Carlin back to the surface, memories of being filthy, and cold, and angry, and afraid.

Tony became suddenly very aware of the people around him. A few had looked up at Fred's slightly-too-loud greeting, but the place was pretty busy. A woman, laughing and talking into her cell, brushed by Tony. A frazzled looking mom sat at one of the corner tables, trying to keep an energetic kid from turning the place into a disaster.

"Hey, Fred," Tony said, drawing out his "E"s in a friendly drawl as he turned. "How 'bout the two of us go for a little walk?" As far as self-preservation, it wasn't as smart move, but he needed to take this outside, preferably before an innocent bystander got killed by a wild shot.

"How 'bout…not," Fred disagreed.

And just like that, the rugrat belonging to Frazzled Mom bounded out, all but offering himself on a golden platter as an ideally helpless hostage. Fred grabbed him and had the muzzle of his gun to the kid's head in an instant.

Tony was impressed when Mom didn't shriek. Some other woman did it for her, though, and everyone was standing, chairs scraping back.

"Hey, hey, easy," Tony said, putting his hands up, assuming his best negotiator voice for Fred, and calling out the usual rote reassurances to the rest of the room: "Everyone stay calm. I'm a Federal Agent." His eyes never left Fred; Fred stared back a challenge. "Fred," he lowered his voice, conversationally, "why don't you put the cute little kid down, now, and we can talk about your anger issues, civilized-like."

"You gonna come with me the easy way, DiNozzo?"

Tony looked into the wide eyes of the kid, staring at him. He was probably not even five yet, and he didn't look so much scared as surprised. Fred was using him like a shield, keeping the gun muzzle glued to the side of his head. There was no way Tony was risking it. No question.

"Yeah. The easy way it is, Fred."

"Good. Weapons on the floor."

Tony complied. "There. See? I'm all yours."

Fred inched closer, still clutching the kid to his chest. He pushed his hostage away, and in the same moment pistol-whipped Tony across the temple.

It was a good idea on Fred's part. No way would Tony have gone quietly after the kid was out of harm's way. As it was, Tony's view of the scene did the whole tunnel-vision thing, while someone took up shrieking again, and by the time he could see straight again he realized Fred had made a smooth transfer of human body-shields.

The cool metal against his skin was very convincing, so when Fred spoke a harsh "move it" into his ear, Tony assumed he meant for him to move his butt out the door. The mind was more-or-less willing, but the body was definitely proving to be an encumbrance, what with his head still swimming, and his legs turning uncoordinated all of a sudden.

Tony had almost forgotten about Gibbs, until he was suddenly there, in the doorway, taking in the scene and definitely looking ten levels beyond ticked off.

"Hey! Hands where I can see them, Agent Gibbs, or I will shoot."

Given the way his ears were still ringing Tony wouldn't have sworn on it, but Gibbs' response sure _sounded_ like a growl. He wanted to tell Gibbs to take Fred out, but he knew it wasn't going to happen, even before Gibbs followed Fred's orders and tossed his gun away.

"Out of the way."

"Nope."

From the way he was spluttering it didn't sound like Fred could believe his ears. Tony knew he couldn't. _Boss, don't do it. _

"If you take him, then you're taking me, too."

"Boss—"

"Shuddup," Fred hissed. "You want to come with, then get in the car, Gibbs."

They left the crowded interior of the coffee shop behind, Fred keeping the gun fixed on Tony, and Gibbs, hands up, did the stupid thing and got in the car as directed. Tony was thinking plenty of choice words in Gibbs' direction at that point, and considering making a break for it. He couldn't be responsible for this, he _couldn't_…

"Not going to happen, DiNozzo," were the last words he heard Fred say, before the butt of the pistol found Tony's head a second time.

It was strange, though; right before he passed out, he was sure he heard Ziva calling his name.

* * *

_To Be Continued..._

(Well, to everyone wondering when Carlin was going to show up...there you go! :D)


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

* * *

Tony woke intermittently, dreams meshing with reality in a merry-go-round of blurry images until he wasn't sure what memories were real at all.

He was really cold, though, and his head hurt, and eventually he discovered that they, at least, were very real and present hurts. Eventually, they grounded him, unpleasantly, in the world of the conscious. He stared at grey-ish-ness, not sure what he was staring at, and couldn't find the willpower to do much more than that for a long time.

He was really…really cold.

"Morning, DiNozzo."

That was Fred. Tony blinked, saw the grey-ish-ness had been replaced by Fred's mug, and gave an appropriate moan.

"Just a little longer, Mom."

"_Up_, sunshine," Fred said, ungraciously beginning to haul Tony up bodily.

The guy had muscle, Tony would give him that much.

"Hey, Pete, get in here!" Fred yelled in painfully close proximity to Tony's ear.

A door opened on un-oiled hinges.

"Huh," said Pete, somewhere close, and Tony recognized him by voice, too, with a surge of fond memories. "Looks like he's gonna be about as much use to us as last time."

Tony resented that, he really did. They didn't need to act like Tony _enjoyed_ imitating a puppet with its strings cut. If Fred wanted better results, he might try taking up a new hobby that didn't involve concussing people.

"Come on, use your feet," Pete complained.

Tony frowned, partly in annoyance, and partly in concentration. Dignity dictated that he at least make an effort, but his balance was too off for more him to manage much more than a graceless stumble. The motion was too much for his head, and it sent the heave-to message to Tony's stomach.

To be honest, Tony didn't make that much effort to avoid vomiting on Fred's shoes. There was nothing petty about some kinds of petty revenge.

There was a lot of predictable swearing from Fred, with Pete adding in a few teenage-girl-worthy comments to the effect of "eww—better you than me, man." Tony allowed himself to be jarred and juggled between the two of them, mostly because he was too busy continuing the limp puppet routine to be able to do anything to stop them.

"Get him in here."

That was Carlin's voice. Now Tony's little trip down memory lane was complete. If only Carlin would _let_ it be complete, and send him home, now. He didn't suppose crying would get him far, but it was a resort he'd keep in mind.

The room wasn't as big as those in the warehouse Avery had used, but it was large enough to be reminiscent. Pete and Fred had let Tony sink back to the floor, which was a relief, even though the floor here was as cold as the floor they'd initially peeled him off of. The lights were brighter, here, though, and it was painful to open his eyes.

"Sentinel, you've been a disappointment."

Tony squinted up at Carlin. "Well shucks." He managed to open his eyes fractionally wider, as they became more accustomed to the light. "Wait, that's right. I almost forgot—I don't _care_ what you think about me."

Carlin was scrutinizing him with an expression that was more perturbed than angry. "I thought, maybe, given time…" He shook his head. "You're not at all what I thought a Sentinel would be like. I suppose I should've gotten that idea from Avery's writings, but I hoped…"

"That's whatcha get for not learning from history."

"I've had enough from you."

"Well, hey, I've had enough from you, too. I'm not the one who arranged this little reunion."

The muscles along Carlin's jaw were twitching. Short, and prone to passionate outbursts, there was something about him that reminded Tony of the pictures he'd seen of Napoleon. He definitely had issues, even if they weren't about his height.

"Look," Tony said, taking compassion, "you give yourself up now, and I'll try to keep my colleagues from ripping you to pieces before you get to trial."

"Your colleagues care about you."

Tony wasn't sure if it was question or a statement. "Depends on what you mean, exactly, by care. There's caring, and then there's, ya know…_caring_."

"They _care_," Carlin said, looking perturbed again. "I've been watching you. They're very protective. Not just the Guide, either. They _all_ care."

"Hey, no need to make it sounds so improbable." Tony didn't like being on the floor, giving even a short guy like Carlin the advantage of towering over him. Years of witnessing and carrying out interrogations had taught him that small things like that got to people. Not that it was actually getting to him—but it was annoying. For good measure, Tony thought to add, "And for your information, he's not _the_ Guide, he's _my_ Guide."

That made Carlin angry, finally. "You do not own anyone, Sentinel. If someone chooses you then you are lucky to be his Sentinel, but it is not a relationship of equals."

Tony didn't make a habit of agreeing with guys like Carlin, but he had to concede, "Well yeah, I did figure out the lucky part. The way I heard it, Guides aren't that common, and I got an uncommon one among the uncommon."

"Then how did you turn out so poorly?"

"That's just harsh." Tony considered the question, nonetheless. "I'm no psychologist, but don't the answers to those questions generally start with the phrase 'when I was just a kid…'?"

Not answering, Carlin seemed lost in thought for a minute, and then he shook himself. "I have an offer to make you." The words were obviously distasteful to him. "I wouldn't generally bargain with a Sentinel, but I believe you know where I could find another Sentinel. I need to know."

Tony laughed, maybe just a little hysterically. Even if Carlin were offering an even trade—Jim Ellison, for Tony's instant release—there was no way that was happening.

"As…difficult as you are," Carlin continued, "I couldn't afford to release you."

"Oh, well, in _that_ case… Sure, just make me any ol' offer. Doesn't have to be something special; I betray friends at a drop of a hat."

"Your Guide."

"Hmm?"

"Your Guide," Carlin repeated patiently. "I'll let him go."

"You wouldn't do that," Tony scoffed. "If you're keeping him somewhere in this building, there's no way you're going to risk letting him go, after he's seen it."

"I'll relocate, if necessary."

"You don't get it, Carlin my man. Given half a chance, Gibbs will turn right around, find you wherever you relocate, and make you regret being born." Tony smiled pleasantly. "He's that kind of Guide."

Carlin blinked in confusion. "You're warning me. You want me to _not_ make a deal with you?"

Tony gnawed the inside of his cheek in private frustration. Carlin had no idea how badly he wanted to make the deal. Ellison was the guy who'd shown him how a Sentinel could be functional, even in their line of work, and he was grateful, and even felt a kind of camaraderie for him, through experiences shared. God knew Ellison, himself, would understand why Tony might betray him in favor of his own Guide.

Carlin's offer was really just fine 'n dandy. Except there was no way Tony could conscience it.

"Thanks. No thanks."

It looked like Carlin had one of those impassioned speeches coming on.

"You…you…"

"Me…me, what?" Tony goaded.

"This Guide cares enough to endanger himself for you, and you show your gratitude by such blatant _disregard_ for his life?"

Tony winced a little. It sure felt that way, he couldn't deny it. "How 'bout this, Carlin. I be a good little Sentinel, and you let him go." Carlin looked interested; Tony prodded, "I'm talking model behavior: rolling over, sitting on command, heeling. The whole nine yards." Everything in Tony rebelled against the offer. Had anything less than Gibbs' life been on the line, groveling for Carlin would've been a hard idea to stomach. It was still a hard idea to stomach, but he could do it. He could.

"I want another Sentinel," Carlin reiterated, doing a fair imitation of a spoiled child.

"You don't _get_ another Sentinel," Tony replied, doing what he thought was a fair imitation of a responsible adult who knew better than Junior.

"I do not need your willing cooperation, Sentinel," Carlin said, low and dangerous. "I will make you cooperate, and I will not bargain with you for anything less than information on other Sentinels."

"There's where you're wrong." Tony could do "dangerous" right back at 'im. "I'm not cooperating for anything less than the release of my Guide, and there's no way I'm giving you another Sentinel. You don't even play nice with the one you've got." Tony tilted his head to one side. "Lemme guess, you were one of those kids who was always begging mommy for a puppy." Tony gave him a stern look of disapproval. "That cute little puppy that you _promised_ you'd take care of lost its charm after the first week, though, didn't it? Come on, come on, admit it—mommy was the one feeding and watering it, and taking it for its daily walk, because you never remembered."

The way Carlin was scowling, it looked rather like he'd hit a nerve.

"_No way_. You really _were_ one of those kids? Was it a beagle puppy under the Christmas tree?"

"Mister Harlan," Carlin spoke stiffly to the patiently waiting Fred, behind him. "Get it."

Fred left.

"It? Get _it_?" Tony nodded sagely, as he concluded, "Ah, you're trying to psyche me out, here, aren't you." It was working, just a little. "You didn't happen to mean that cute little beagle puppy, by any chance—no?"

As it turned out, "it" might've belonged _on_ a beagle. Tony'd always heard they were real yappers. Fred returned and handed the collar-like-thing to Carlin, Tony following the transaction with a sinking feeling. The collar had a black box attached to the front of it, and a small padlock dangling from the clasp.

"You know, I have this friend who likes to wear those dog collars with all the spikes on them, but I think even she would draw the line at…that. I just gotta say, either way, I don't really go in for that kind of thing… Just not my style."

"You talk too much."

Even dignity agreed that it wasn't worth saving face to sit there and let Carlin put that thing on him. Tony made an awkward backwards scramble, almost getting to his feet, before Pete slammed a knee into the middle of his back, offering the free advice to "_give it up_," as he sent Tony sprawling flat on his face.

He couldn't stop his heart from hammering with instinctive fear of the unknown, struggling against the weight on his back.

"I really don't think—" Tony began, then, before he could think "shock collar," or "bad idea," Carlin had it on him, synched tight.

Pete stopped pinning him down, but after the volt of electricity he'd just received it was all Tony could do to curl into himself and moan. Quietly.

That poor beagle.

* * *

Tony always knew he talked a lot.

It was a bad habit of his, saying _something_, no matter what. It didn't matter if that something was stupid, or not. Sometimes, the stupider, more juvenile, the better. Sometimes he talked just to hear the sound his own voice. Sometimes he did it because people were trying to figure Anthony DiNozzo out, looking a bit too closely at him. You let people get away with that, and pretty soon they'd be making something of you—Tony didn't like looking at those guess-work portraits, made by people who didn't know the first thing about him. Then, of course, there were the people who did know him, and when they started looking too closely the portrait was usually better—and worse.

So Tony talked. It was the art of misdirection; the kind of stuff that made you good at undercover work. Tony was good at undercover work, and he was good at talking.

And Carlin had, in effect, taken his voice. And he'd taken his watch, _again_. Tony didn't like to attribute too much intelligence to the guy, but he sure knew how to incapacitate him where it hurt.

Always, in the back of his mind, there was a gnawing awareness that he was helpless when it came to Gibbs' fate. Tony hated Gibbs for allowing himself to get caught up in this—for _volunteering_ to come along for the ride, quite literally. He was also absurdly grateful. This wasn't like last time. Gibbs always fixed things, somehow. Really, just knowing Gibbs was somewhere in the same building was a selfish sort of reassurance.

After the first day of wearing the collar, Tony swore he'd never put one on a dog so long as he lived. Never mind that the collar Carlin had put on him seemed to be a unique Sentinel version—and never mind dogs had a coat of fur that had to mute the effect at least a little. This had to have more juice to it than your run-of-the-mill of anti-bark collar. Either it was some kind of special-order deal, or it had been tampered with in some way—at the very least, that kind of voltage had to be the highest setting the thing had. Tony sure _hoped_ there wasn't a higher setting.

Three days. Three days of the thing constantly around his neck, and Tony was ready to strangle himself, so long as it meant getting it off.

Carlin was playing with him. Every day few hours he seemed to, quite arbitrarily, switch the settings on the collar. Either that, or he was just bumping the remote. The easiest way to avoid punishment would, of course, have been to give up talking altogether. But, Tony being Tony, he couldn't leave it at that, when there was always the hope of getting in an insult edgewise. Sometimes he got away with it, more often he didn't.

Fred and Pete seemed to think it was pretty funny. Ironically, it was an attitude Carlin didn't share, or approve. He took Sentinel Obedience Class seriously.

"Hey there, Fido," Fred greeted, the fourth morning.

"I don't know," Pete commented, "he looks like a Bruno to me." He leaned over a bit, patting his knee. "Here boy, come."

Tony had been planning on attempting to utilize his own two feet. He decided then to simply stay where he was on the cot—or doggy-bed, what-have-you—and snarl as befitted his new mongrel station in life. He'd pretty much given up with the witty come-backs after day two, when Carlin had upped the ante right off the bat, as if in anticipation of Tony's usual repartee.

That hadn't been fun. Well, the insulting part had been fun, but the spastically jerking around on the floor part, not so much.

"C'mon, time for your morning walk," Fred said cheerfully, taking one arm, while Pete took the other.

Tony kept the complaining inward, as his body protested the movement. He preferred getting his morning jolt out of caffeine, not electricity.

"Sentinel," Carlin said it the same way Fred and Pete said "Fido" or "Bruno." "I hope you're beginning to understand the rules by now."

_Yeah. Something about Sentinels drooling, and Carlins ruling? _

Carlin studied him. Maybe it was Tony's death-glare that gave his mutinous thoughts away. "You _are_ stubborn."

Tony smiled widely at that.

So far, Carlin hadn't been the type to resort to actual violence (although it could be argued that electrocuting someone was, in fact, a form of violence), so when he nodded to Fred, Tony wasn't prepared for the kick to the ribs.

Of course Fred _would_ be all for violence.

Tony yelped in pain, loud enough to set off the device. On the bright side, it was a comparatively small jolt.

Trying not to twitch visibly, Tony used a hand to prop himself up, patching together a vague posture of defiance. The other hand came to his neck, pulling at the black box instinctively, futilely. It was kept synched too tight for the gesture to do any good.

Somehow, even the fact that they'd been keeping his hands free, unbound, worked to make the situation all the more demeaning, for even with that comparative freedom, the lock at the back kept him from being able to remove it. Just like a dog, he seemed to be spending more time on all fours—or flat on his face on the ground—watching his Neanderthal betters walk upright and hold the keys to the infernal collar around his neck.

"You don't understand, do you?" Carlin asked, with something like genuine sorrow in his tone, like a man with limitless patience trying to get something meaningful through to a lesser being.

_Oh, I understand. You're a freakin' lunatic. Gotcha._

"I'll ask you the same questions as before. Nod, and I promise the collar will be turned off. I give you my word you'll be allowed to speak, if you're ready to give me some answers _without_ the smart remarks."

_Classic: tell me what I want to hear. Ever get tired of traveling 'round and 'round that circular reasoning loop? _

"Are you ready to give me information on the whereabouts of the other Sentinel?"

Tony looked blankly at him, like the brute beast he was.

Carlin paced a little one way, then the other way, before stopping again in front of Tony. "Do you _want_ me to hurt your Guide?" His voice was full of self-righteous indignation at the things Tony was driving him to.

Tony'd already gotten quite good at keeping his insults to himself, but the growl just came out of him before he could think better of it. Maybe he was turning into the primal creature, somehow less than human, that Carlin wanted him to believe he was.

There was no doubt, this time, that Carlin had turned the voltage up a notch. Tony's arm collapsed from under him, fingers clawing at the punishing black box. His gasping probably compounded things, but it wasn't like he could _stop_.

It seemed to drag on longer than any of the previous times. Carlin didn't like his pets growling at him.

Tony was panting for breath when it stopped, trembling and unable to stop.

Carlin crouched down in front of him, and spoke almost kindly. "Sentinel, I've done my research on you."

_Oh goody. I feel like a real grade A+ essay, now. _

"You've been faced with the truth of who you are all your life. Your father knew."

At that, Tony drew his head up from where he'd been resting it against the concrete, to stare at Carlin.

"Yes, I know he found out about your abilities. Perhaps he didn't know the correct term for what you were, but he knew it wasn't normal."

Tony blinked, eyes feeling gritty. He himself hadn't known the "correct terms." He'd been freaked out. It had been terrifying—it still was, even with people around him who were willing to accept him, weird developments and all.

"_How?" _he found himself mouthing, unwillingly, bewildered that Carlin seemed to know the intimate details of a period of his childhood he couldn't imagine telling even Gibbs about.

Carlin didn't answer. He smiled a little, not maliciously. "He took you to all kinds of doctors, didn't he? Expensive specialists and psychiatrists…"

Tony led his forehead return to the cool comfort of the floor. _Shut up. _

"He wanted to find a solution. A cure. Nothing was too good for his son. And how did you repay him?"

_You don't know what you're talking about, moron… He wanted me to just make it go away. I couldn't. He couldn't accept that. _

"You ran away from home. Just like you keep trying to run away from me. Your father couldn't have known his quest was impossible, but the fact that it was impossible is not the point. You are always running away, Sentinel. _You_ are the one who is in denial."

No quip came to mind in response to that. Maybe there was a grain of truth in there, somewhere. A few grains, even. But hey, the very definition of being in denial was to ignore the truth staring you in the face, right?

Tony's thoughts ached almost as much as his body, and he found himself suddenly too weary to listen to another word from Carlin. Carlin wasn't letting him say anything, after all, so why should Carlin get stand there and preach at him.

Closing his eyes, he imagined the dials: hearing, sight, taste, and touch. Oh yeah, and he had a new dial, too, a label with a hastily-scrawled "sense of wit" above it. He hadn't been a big fan of the whole imaginary-dial system of Sandburg's to begin with, but he was warming to it. It was all about control, right? That control, right now, was a wall standing between him and probable insanity. The "wit" dial had certainly been serving him well as regarded keeping his big mouth in check.

Right now, though, what he wanted was control over _Carlin's_ big mouth.

He fiddled, almost languidly, with the dial responsible for hearing, giving a secret sigh of pleasure when the lecture he was supposed to be receiving turned into nothing more than an inarticulate droning. Another minute adjustment and the droning disappeared altogether.

Tony's inattention must've been apparent, because someone—probably Fred, again—was prodding him in the ribs. Tony eyed the dial for touch.

It did occur to Tony that turning the dials too low probably wasn't healthy, but, then, nothing about his current situation could be considered _healthy_. This morning he'd woken up to a tightness in his chest, and a congestion in his sinuses, and he'd known that life was not fair, and that, yes, colds _did_ truly have intentionally malicious timing.

Figuring the pain would be there whether he felt it or not, and his inability to do anything about it would remain, Tony began the same process of fine-tuning his touch to a better level. Turned to zero was just about right. _And you wake up in those cold sweats in the middle of the night—after drowning with every sensation muted—and you wonder where your subconscious gets its material? Smart, DiNozzo, real smart._

Gibbs would head-smack him silly if he knew Tony were experimenting like this. After he did a lot more than head-smack Carlin for driving Tony to it, of course. _Betcha the Boss would like the whole "sense of wit" dial, though. He'd tell you to give that one a good yank._

And really, sometimes Tony got tired of listening to his own wise-cracks. So he did give the "wit" dial a good yank, and let the muteness overshadow his senses.

* * *

_To be Continued..._

A/N: Sorry I took so long to get this up! I've had a pretty bad chest cold. Also, FF . net's emails have haven't been working with my gmail account (delayed by about a day), so I had to switch email accounts...and in the process things got pretty messed up, so I probably didn't respond to several reviews. I may not be able to get to everyone this time, either, but I definitely appreciate all the feedback! ;)


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

* * *

Every brilliant idea had to have a downside. Friday night on the town meant a Saturday morning hangover. Pulling an all-nighter at the office, surviving on little more than coffee and cold pizza, pretty much equaled a hangover, too.

Who knew the same could be said for experimentally dialing down half your senses? He should've known happy oblivion came with a killer price tag.

Tony had woken up on day five with a head surely just minutes away from detonation. Stifling a groan, he cradled his head and buried his face in the pillow. There was only one possible bright side to this, and it involved timing the explosion of his brain with the entrance of Fred.

The pillow smelled moldy; inhaling made his throat tickle.

_No, no, no… _

Tony held his breath when he felt the cough coming on. Of course, that gave the sneeze the opportunity it'd been looking for. His hands gripped the sides of the cot as a small ripple of energy shuddered through him. It stopped, and he thought, with some pride, that it hadn't been so bad—he was developing a higher threshold for the pain this thing could deliver. Or maybe he was just becoming brain-damaged, his grey cells too fried to _have_ a reaction.

Too bad he was too preoccupied to stop the cough a second time. The pain that knifed through his chest was drowned out by a higher voltage of electricity that rippled through him. Tony panicked. He couldn't breathe through the pain because of the coughing, and he couldn't stop coughing with the pain of the jolt exacerbating his difficulty breathing.

It stopped, abruptly, leaving Tony coughing, and gagging, and trying not to cry in relief. He curled his knees up to his chest, and kept them that way even when Fred and Pete came in, door banging open angrily. They were swearing, but Tony guessed it had less to do with concern for Fido, and more about being woken up before their beauty sleep was complete. God knew they needed it.

Tony was dragged down a familiar hall, head drooping against his chest, eyes dimly watching the dirty carpet go by. It was strange, he though, absently, that there was carpet in the hallway, and bare concrete everywhere else.

Aching chest, aching head, and aching throat all seemed much more important than Carlin right then. Actually, the grain of sand in Tony's shoe seemed a lot more important than Carlin, any day of the week.

Tony supposed sick dogs were supposed to tough it out. He'd heard canines like wolves tried to fake wellness to keep from being kicked out of the pack. Well let them kick him out. He _was_ sick—and too tired _and_ sick _and_ hung-over from tuned-out senses—to care about pretending otherwise.

"Are you…all right?"

At first Tony thought he might hallucinating Carlin's nervous, almost kind-sounding, question.

"Sentinel, are you all right?"

_You spend four days teaching me to sit down and shut up, and now you want me to speak on command, too? _Am_ I all right? You can figure that one out on your own, buddy… It's not like the answer to that is exactly _obvious, _but I think you'll get it right eventually_.

Tony wasn't expecting cold fingers on the side of his neck, right above the collar. The touch on his pulse was too violating and intimate, and he jerked away from it, more incensed than he'd been any of the times Fred had kicked him, or the times Carlin had electrocuted him.

"I stopped it as soon as I realized…" Carlin was saying.

"_Don' touch_," Tony spat darkly, before the sudden movement, and the effort of speaking, exacted more coughing out of him.

Spots dancing in his vision, and a static buzz in his ears, Tony almost couldn't hear Carlin, but he was vaguely aware of him, peering down at him, talking more urgently.

"Sentinel, answer me, I need to know—that is, is there anything I can do?"

Tony chuckled around another cough, curling into the same comfy fetal position he'd just been settling into before Fred and Pete interrupted. "Try…a doctor…" He never thought the idea would sound so appealing. A nice, quiet hospital room, nurses, instead of Fred and Pete, and no shock collar were all starting to sound _real_ nice.

"I'm sorry," Carlin almost even sounded sorry, "I can't do that."

Tony shifted his head on the floor, seeking out a cooler place to rest his temple. "M'Guide," he mumbled.

"What's that?"

Tony found Carlin's face suddenly too close to his own, grimaced, and repeated more forcefully, "_Guide_."

"You want your Guide?"

_Got it in one. _When he said it like that, though, it made the request sound like a kid asking for his parents. _But you're still busy not caring what he thinks, DiNozzo. Right. _"_Yes_," he answered hoarsely, "S" rasping.

Carlin's face retreated a little, expression suspicious. "You're faking." He drew out of his pocket a remote that Tony knew only too well by now. When he was in Carlin's presence, he'd become used to the tell-tale sign of Carlin reaching into his pocket heralding another change in collar settings.

But Tony wasn't faking, and the tightness in his chest remained, and his head was beginning to feel light. "Pl'se, no," he whispered. "M'not." It was self-degrading. It was humiliating. It was just the kind of subservience Carlin wanted. Tony closed his eyes, trying to focus on nice even breathing while one hand, as always, came up to cradle the stupid, unfeeling black box that had become so at-home being glued to his throat.

Four days. _Four stinkin' days_ back here under Carlin's control, and the morning of the fifth day had hardly dawned, but he was already giving him what he wanted.

Carlin studied him, still dubious, finger poised above the remote. He put it back in his pocket.

Tony closed his eyes, and couldn't stop being relieved, even when another paroxysm tore through him. At least he wasn't dealing with the collar at the same time. He could do coughing. Hacking up a lung was piece of cake. Nothin' to it, so long as it was all you had to contend with.

"Sentinel…"

"Jus' lemme die," Tony suggested. That said, a terrible thought struck Tony. If he did die, what would they do with Gibbs? Carlin really didn't even have a use for him now, apart from threatening Tony with harm to him, and if Tony were dead, they'd very likely just cut their losses and make a clean start. Or else maybe they'd try and find out what Gibbs knew about Ellison. Either way, the thought filled Tony was desperation.

Theatric inspiration struck him. Gasping for breath (rather realistically), and continuing to give in to barking coughs (very realistically), Tony moaned with heartfelt agony, and pleaded, "M'Guide, pl's… Need'm."

It was working. Carlin was frowning deeply at him. Tony could see the wheels spinning.

_That's right, just look at the poor Sentinel writhe—and you're just beginning to get him broken in, too. It would be a shame to lose all that work, huh? _

"Yes, yes—your Guide. Just…relax, Sentinel."

For once, Tony willingly complied.

Carlin left, but Tony's ground-level view showed him at least one pair of feet in close proximity, so Fred or Pete had stayed. Not that making a break for it right then would've been a well thought out, or realistic, proposition.

His eyes had drifted mostly shut, when he felt fingers on his neck. The touch was warm this time, though, and had a familiar voice to go with it.

"Tony?"

"Boss." Tony opened his eyes, commenting with the first thought that struck him: "You needa shave." Shave sounded more like "shafe," but who really cared.

"Don't try anything, Agent Gibbs, or my men, here, won't hesitate to shoot you—or the Sentinel."

That was Carlin, sounding paranoid. Tony couldn't think of a response. That was okay, though, because Gibbs looked over his shoulder and answered in Marine, telling Carlin in no uncertain terms exactly what he was, and where he could go, far more eloquently than Tony could've put it.

"Wow, Boss," Tony complimented, hating how thin his voice sounded, especially in contrast to the healthy parade ground bellow Gibbs had just demonstrated.

"You need an ambulance," Gibbs said, not missing a beat in returning to their exchange of advice.

"Yeah. Well, if you see one…" Tony cut the cough short before it could begin, which didn't make his chest happy.

"Don't stifle it."

"But 'm so good at it," Tony said, not thinking responsibly—only thinking how strange it was to hear someone tell him _not_ to stifle something, when he'd just been getting so good at holding it all in. Gibbs didn't know about any of that, though, and Tony didn't want him to know.

Gibbs was looking at him strangely, though, and there was an unpleasant gleam in his eyes that had nothing to do with remaining a calm and level-headed leader, and everything to do with making Carlin cry like a little girl.

So maybe Gibbs _did_ know something about these last few days of hell Carlin had been putting Tony through. Or maybe Tony just looked like he'd been through hell, and, being a veteran investigator, Gibbs had been able to put two and two together. It was pretty obvious Carlin wasn't running a spa, here.

Either way, the look in Gibbs' eye made Tony shudder. Maybe it was partly the cold.

Gibbs' touch shifted to the back of his neck—the dangerous look intensified for a moment, as Gibbs' hand brushed the collar, examining it like it was a living nemesis—and then he gave Tony's neck a gentle squeeze, and there was only gentleness left in his glance.

Tony felt acutely embarrassed, with that much raw concern suddenly leveled at him, and from _Gibbs_. This was an "atta boy" times ten. This was…his Guide, taking care of his own, letting his Sentinel know in no uncertain terms how worried he'd been about him, and still was.

"Is the Sentinel sufficiently recovered to be moved?" Carlin hazarded after several minutes had passed between them.

"To a hospital."

Carlin smiled tightly at Gibbs. "Not possible."

Tony couldn't see Gibbs' expression, because he was looking over his shoulder again, but he could see Carlin flinch back.

Carlin recovered, at least partly. His dignity was pretty much a goner, but he was trying to look authoritative. "Mister Harlan, Mister Gerard…"

Fred came forward, willing block-head that he was, ready to maneuver Tony with his usual grab-and-drag bravado.

Gibbs was standing over Tony, staring Fred down, before Tony could even get ready to grin and bear it.

"I've got him."

Tony didn't need to see Gibbs to know that look was back—only Fred didn't have the brains to be properly afraid. Tony started to drag himself upright, not about to lie around like a corpse while Gibbs got himself shot.

Before things could escalate, however, Carlin snapped, "Very well." To Fred and Pete: "Escort them."

Gibbs turned back to Tony, crouching to help him. Tony tried to meet him halfway, but did too shaky and belated a job of rising and had to settle for Gibbs' looping Tony's arm around his neck, levering him the last two-thirds of the journey to uprightness. It wasn't at all the kind of service Tony was used to, but his ribs were kinda tender thanks to the imprints left in them by Fred's foot, and a treacherous whimper got through his lips as he tried to avoid leaning too heavily against Gibbs.

"_Hey_." Gibbs got his attention, as they limped out behind their Two Goon Escort. "Don't."

Tony got the message as Gibbs carefully put his left arm around Tony's back, supporting more of his weight. Of its own accord, Tony's head somehow came to rest sideways against Gibbs' shoulder, and Tony let it stay there, as if it were the most natural kind of arrangement in the world.

Fred was so polite as to open the door for them, and Pete so considerate as to give them a parting shove in the back. Tony stumbled, but Gibbs kept him from going down.

"Here."

Tony looked down at the cot, and said numbly, "There's only one, Boss." Stupid cough: it would make him huff in very sickly manner, _right then_. Gibbs gave him a look that was inescapably clear, and Tony switched tracks to, "And it's all mine." Tony sat, scooting back so that he could rest against the wall. Under his breath, he said, "You do know I was just acting in there, Boss."

In answer, Gibbs took off his jacket, putting a hand on Tony's shoulder that indicated he should lean forward.

Tony wasn't so out of it he couldn't connect the dots. "Don' need it."

"Humor me."

"Boss…" Tony trailed off in to a whine. "I don't think 'giving the Sentinel the clothes off your own back' is actually a part of a Guide's job description."

"You read the Guidebook?"

"Um, no, I…"

In a smooth moment, Gibbs had gently pushed him forward enough to get the jacket around his shoulders.

Tony blinked owlishly, as much at the sudden additional warmth as with comprehension of the joke. "_Guide_book? That's funny, Boss."

There were undoubtedly more wise-cracks to be made, more humor to be found in the situation… Tony's hand crept up to that black box at his neck, hiding it in a fist. There was a joke to be found somewhere, for sure, about him wearing a dog collar. Definitely something. But, touching it, Tony found his words drying up. He wondered when Carlin would turn it back on. The thought made his throat itch with the desire to use this moment of freedom to talk, while the newfound instinct that Carlin had taught him—to think twice, and just shut up instead—made him cringe and pause.

"Tony, get some sleep."

Good advice. Thing was, the last thing Tony wanted to do was sleep. The shock collar was always turned on in the morning. Always. _Four days—five mornings—does not constitute "always," oh master of the melodramatic... _

"Hey."

Tony looked over at Gibbs; he hadn't noticed him taking a seat next to him on the cot. That particular attention-grabbing "hey" meant Gibbs wanted something from Tony.

Tony shook his head. There was no way to summarize this in way that Gibbs could understand. Tony wished he could summarize for _himself_ what Carlin's mind-games were doing to him. "Boss, you don't know…"

"Yeah. Yeah, I do." Gibbs nodded towards the far corner of the room.

Tony looked at the small camera, mounted in the corner, near the ceiling, and slowly, emotionlessly realized aloud: "He let you watch. You saw...how much?" If he said it with faint accusation, it was because, right then, _he_ was the one thinking about making Carlin cry like a little girl.

"Enough." The one-word answer was enough to make it obvious he was maintaining first dibs on Carlin.

Tony felt like laughing. It was too funny. Here, he'd worrying all this time about where Gibbs was—worrying about Gibbs worrying—and Gibbs had known exactly what was going on, all along. Annoyingly, the laugh that burst out of Tony was more giggle than genuine laugh.

Gibbs didn't look amused, but neither did he look irritated. He just waited.

Tony sobered when he felt the prick of tears at the back of his eyes. No way was he going to giggle _and_ cry in front of Gibbs and mark himself a certifiable lunatic. Problem was, he was having trouble getting enough air in: his chest felt constricted enough, without the collar around his throat, biting into his skin. _Too tight, too tight…_ His hand moved from the box to claw at the restricting band of the collar, but strong fingers stopped his, pulling his hand away.

"Hey—_hey_."

Boy, he really was hearing the full spectrum of Gibbs' sternest "_hey_"s today. This one was a two for the price of one deal: both were a demand for Tony's attention in the tone of voice Gibbs knew always made Tony snap to attention.

"Breathe."

Tony was trying, he really was. "That…your advise s'a…professional?"

"Not _advice_."

It would've sounded merciless—to someone who didn't know Gibbs. Tony smiled, faintly, knowing it wasn't normal to smile when someone barked an order at you, and currently just fine with not being normal.

Of course, there were levels of abnormality, and Tony felt—without real concern—the need to inform Gibbs, "We're holding hands, Boss." He looked down at their hands, pointedly. Technically, Gibbs was restraining his hand. _Had_ been restraining his hand… He wasn't going to throttle himself with the collar. Yet. He was too tired to do a proper job of it.

Gibbs gave him an amused look, without comment.

Tony tilted his head back against the wall, staring at the ceiling, and wondered if it were day or night. There weren't any windows here, and he'd been a little preoccupied with Carlin. He supposed it didn't really matter.

"DiNozzo, I _will_ make it an order."

He meant sleeping, Tony could only assume. The idea wasn't so bad, not with Gibbs' shoulder against his. Still, it never did to cave too easily. "What if I jus' watched TV for a bit…" he suggested, making a wobbly nod at the tiny screen in the corner beneath the camera—blank, as it had been since his arrival, and too high to reach in any case.

"_DiNozzo_—" Gibbs began warningly. Apparently, he had a grudge against that TV that went beyond his usual technology hate.

"—M'glad your're here, Guide…Boss." Tony really hated congestion. It made you say funny things funny. He hadn't actually intended to say that _out loud_, either, but congestion, combined with possible shock-collar-induced brain-damage, did strange things to your thought processes.

Tony closed his eyes, and after a moment Gibbs' hand left his, leaving Tony felt oddly bereft for the loss of the contact. He shivered a bit in surprise when Gibbs' hand returned to his neck, like before—a gentle pressure above the chaffing material of the collar.

Tony fell asleep, after all.

* * *

_To be Continued..._

**(Well, there's Gibbs, back in the picture! :D Hope the H/C isn't too sappy or OOC; I'm a total addict of the stuff whether reading or writing. And, really, Tony was due some TLC after what Carlin's been putting him through. Thanks for all the continued wonderful feedback. Even though I didn't get around to responses, your reviews always make me SO happy. - sends cookies to all - )**


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

* * *

Tony had been becoming progressively better at remembering not to wake up mouth first. _Before_, however, he hadn't woken up to Gibbs, watching him. It wasn't so hard, restraining the urge to talk to Fred or Pete, but Gibbs, looking serious like_ that_… It just begged for a smart-aleck comment from Tony to lighten the situation by calling down head-slaps upon himself.

Gibbs was standing, back leaning against the opposite wall, looking like he might've been there all the while Tony had been sleeping. Tony noted that he himself was not sitting upright on the cot, like he last remembered. He was stretched out, blankets covering him to the shoulders. Gibbs must've…tucked him in. It didn't strike him as embarrassing like it probably should have, likely because he'd been learning so much about true humiliation from Carlin.

Gibbs was frowning at him knowingly, and Tony automatically opened his mouth to say something—then closed it just as quickly. Since he'd put it on Tony, Carlin had never left the collar deactivated for long, and Tony didn't relish the thought of setting the thing off in front of Gibbs. It wasn't so much about being macho (he was pretty sure he didn't cut a stoic figure while being zapped), as much as it was about really, _really_ not liking to be the cause of Gibbs getting that look on his face. The concerned one was almost as bad as the homicidal one, as far as Tony was concerned.

In retrospect, it wasn't bright of him to flinch back from Gibbs; it was just an instinct, sleep-muddled brain being reactionary of late. He flashed an ironic lopsided smile that said "Yes, I'm an idiot, Boss," clear as any words, as soon as he caught himself.

Fred and Pete banged in, then, giving Tony another reason to flinch. He stood quickly—more quickly than his head would've liked—but Gibbs was faster, stepping between Tony and the door.

_Stonewall Gibbs._

"We're just taking the Sentinel," Fred's voice said, from beyond Gibbs.

Something told Tony Fred hadn't been too happy about putting the two prisoners in together. He sounded twitchy. But, then, an angry Gibbs had that general effect on people.

Gibbs didn't dignify Fred's demand with an answer, letting his stance—between them and Tony—speak for him.

"Look, if you don't move—" Fred began.

Gibbs stepped into Fred's personal space, nose-to-nose.

Tony didn't like the direction things were heading, but he hesitated to say anything. The last thing this tenuous situation need was him convulsing on the floor. Gibbs didn't need more fuel for his anger right then.

Pete, at least, had a little bit of diplomat in him—compared to Fred, that was. "Carlin appreciates your help, calming the Sentinel," he offered.

Tony winced. He was getting used to the whole dog analogy, but that made him sound like some kind of _rabid_ dog.

Gibbs wasn't standing down from this one. Tony read his body language—the way his back straightened, everything about him stiffening in readiness—and knew that Gibbs was going to do, realizing it not a moment too soon.

Tony was right behind Gibbs, looking down in appreciation at his boss' handiwork: Pete and Fred, laid out cold, Fred with what looked like a probable broken nose. He stepped over them, following Gibbs' example in arming himself, snagging Pete's Sig.

Thanking God for the invention of adrenaline—without which Tony was pretty sure he wouldn't currently be on his feet—Tony followed Gibbs down the hall, gun poised in readiness, suppressing a cough deep in his chest.

It was like running into a wall. One moment he was a step away from escape, the next Tony was crying out and involuntarily going to his knees. Ahead, Gibbs stopped in his tracks, returning without hesitation. And Tony wanted to cry, from the pain of the sporadic bursts of electricity coming from the collar, making him jerk, but even more because he knew, no matter what he said, Gibbs wasn't going to leave unless he, Tony, could suck it up and stumble after him.

He almost made it up before a fresh jolt made him cry out a second time. Tony really hated himself right then, but there was no amount of internal raging that he could do that would convince his body to shake this off, or suck it up, or do anything but go back to his knees, gun falling from his trembling hands, every breath a major accomplishment.

"_Stand down! Stand down, _now_, Agent Gibbs! Gun on the floor!"_

That sounded like Carlin, or a tinny-sounding version of him, coming from somewhere above—loudspeakers?

Somewhere closer, and not sounding at all tinny, Gibbs was bellowing something defiant back, in thoroughly Marine terms again. Tony got the impression it had something to do with turning off the collar, but his hearing and vision were neither of them doing too well right then, and he found himself sagging forward…and caught, surprisingly, not by the floor.

_Go, Boss—_go_. Please, please… _He could only say it in his head, because of the blinding pain.

Then the pain stopped for a second, and Tony managed to get one "_Go_!" said aloud. That, of course, wasn't bright; the collar resumed punishing him before the single word was completely choked out.

Tony's ringing ears weren't entirely sure of Gibbs' phrasing, but he was pretty sure the general content of his answer was very…_very_ firm "No," cushioned, of course, with more impressive Marine sentiments.

"_I have more men stationed at the exit, and they will not hesitate to shoot! I repeat: stand down!"_—Carlin, again.

Tony moaned low in his throat, knowing he'd be beyond mortified to think back to this moment of being, literally, cradled in Gibbs' arms, sobbing for each breath, but kinda not caring—_in the least_—right then.

Who knew how long they sat there. Tony was too busy counting the jolts to count minutes. The jolts did stop, though, eventually, and Tony wasn't so foolhardy as to actually verbalize his heart-felt _"Thank God."_ Knowing Carlin, the thing was definitely set to go off the moment Tony so much as cleared his throat. Regardless, he didn't think he'd ever been so relieved in his life; for a while, there, he thought Carlin was never going to stop hitting the zap-the-Sentinel button.

Tony hardly had time to stop shuddering, before he was being pulled away from a brisling and growling Gibbs. Maybe it was Fred, come back to join the land of the conscious, 'cause it sure _felt_ like Fred, the way the guy was enthusiastically pinioning Tony's hands behind his back, with cuffs, or rope, or maybe barbed-wire, from the feel of it.

Then he was dragged—home, sweet home—back to the large room where Carlin's lovely face, as always, was there to greet him. Gibbs had been brought along for the fun this time, too, and was seated with his arms tied to a chair, looking about as angry as Tony could ever remember seeing him. _Ever_. It was an awe-inspiring sight, before it was cut off, Tony's escort releasing him too suddenly for Tony to avoid a face-plant with the floor. He was getting altogether too chummy with this particular floor…

"I should shoot both of you on the spot," Tony heard Carlin say, somewhere to his right.

Tony had a few choice words stored up in response. Gibbs said them for him.

Tony didn't mean to chuckle, he really didn't, but it was practically telepathic, the way Gibbs seemed to know _exactly_ what Tony wanted to say…

Fred's foot—or someone's foot, at any rate—put a quick and to the chuckle, catching Tony in the side of the head. He was pretty sure he saw stars, for minute. Honest-to-God, cartoon-style stars, all against a murky blackness that wanted suck him down. But, of course, the murky blackness knew that DiNozzos _do not pass out_, and eventually left him alone.

When Tony emerged on the other side, Carlin was still ranting. Surprise, surprise.

"…and now he is _useless_. You have ruined him, Agent Gibbs, with your _lack of discipline_—your lack of caring enough to put him in his place."

"His place is not _there_."

Oh. Good. It was reassuring to hear Gibbs say that, 'cause if they got out of this alive Tony was really hoping he got to go back to sitting at his desk like a human being, instead wallowing on the floor. He was getting really tired of wallowing. Playing dead was becoming a trick way too second-nature to him.

"Do not correct me," Carlin snapped, icier than Tony had ever heard him. "I will resort to punishing the Sentinel more if you want to go that route, Agent Gibbs."

Gibbs was silent, technically, but Tony was guessing his expression was saying plenty. He wished he had the energy to roll onto his side and see it for himself, but movement, however fractional, didn't seem like a smart idea just then. The last thing Tony needed was to start up a coughing fit again.

Unimpeded, Carlin took up his rant once more.

"I've done my research. I've read _Avery's_ research." There was triumph in Carlin's quick answer to the silent question Gibbs' face must've asked: "Yes, you destroyed all the material you could find, but Avery had back-up copies at other locations. I found them, and I've read them all—viewed all of his work with this Sentinel. He was right, in so many ways."

_And a maniac in _every_ way. _Tony was sure Gibbs was thinking the same thing, and it was annoying to be the metaphorical ball-and-chain holding Gibbs back from saying it.

"I thought I would make it my tribute to his research, to train this Sentinel, finishing his work. I should have listened to my own better judgment; he is bad blood, through and through. He killed the hand that would have fed him."

"_I_ killed Avery," Gibbs interrupted.

Oops. Tony'd almost forgotten about that little white lie he'd told Carlin. He hadn't wanted to give the guy a reason to want to get his hands on Gibbs. That idea sure hadn't gone according to plan.

From the sound of it, however, Carlin was shaking his head in disbelief that stemmed from Gibbs' stubbornness, not suspicion that he might be telling the truth. "You're _still_ trying to protect the Sentinel? What will demonstrate to you how hopeless—"

"—Nothing," Gibbs said flatly.

Tony was beginning to feel like little more than a rug on the floor, for all the input he was having on this conversation. Granted, he was a rather pleased rug right then, hearing Gibbs contradict Carlin with so much certainty. If only Tony could shake the sense that what Carlin was saying might not be all wrong.

When Carlin began talking about CIA ops, espionage, and spies, Tony mostly tuned him out. Apparently, he was under the paranoid delusion that a great deal of people in those lines of work who wound up "cracking"—sometimes turning on their own countries—were Sentinels. According to him, the majority of Sentinels were poorly trained, psychologically unstable, and dangerous, never properly controlled, more often than not turning into loose cannons. Listening to it all made Tony feel like a time bomb about to go off, or a maniac, one "unstable" thought away from turning on society and becoming some sort of serial killer.

At least Carlin seemed to agree with _some_ of what Sandburg had told them, insofar as to assume that a large portion of Sentinels instinctively sought out jobs that put them in a position to protect their "tribes," whether that took them to the military, or law enforcement. Unfortunately, the flip-side (according to Carlin) was that, more often than not, putting a gun in the hands of a Sentinel was a bad, bad idea.

Having already heard this part from Carlin before, Tony knew from experience that the man could go on for a long time with his paranoid theories. _Tony's_ theory was that Carlin was also a conspiracy theory buff, and likely a firm believer in alien abductions, to boot. But, really, who was Tony to point fingers and laugh? Not too long ago the idea of an NCIS Special Agent with super-power senses would've struck him as equally ludicrous.

"The public does not need to be informed, the public needs to be protected—Sentinels must be kept in a controlled environment, handled by experts, and only allowed to operate under close supervision."

Tony couldn't deny there were some grains of truth in what he was saying. He was just really hoping there was an alternative to the whole shock-collar method, and, frankly, he really didn't like the sound of a "controlled environment," if by that Carlin meant this hell-hole they'd been staying in. Actually, none of it sounded so hot, unless by "expert" he meant Guides, and by Guides he meant _real_ Guides like Gibbs.

"No Guide with half a brain would let you anywhere near their Sentinel."

There went Gibbs, being telepathic again. Tony really liked the tone he was striking, here: non-negotiable. Oh yeah, and he was also still so_ very _subtly giving off that I'd-like-to-strangle-you vibe. Quite masterful, really.

Carlin didn't share Tony's views, apparently.

"Mister Harlan?"

Fred's "Yes Sir" sounded congested, probably thanks to Gibbs' killer hook.

"Take them back to their separate accommodations, if you please."

Separate accommodations? _Accommodations_? That was stretching things, just a bit. "Jail cell" might've been somewhat on the melodramatic side, Tony supposed, but at least it would've been a description within the grasp of this thing called reality.

Fred being Fred, he would choose the most impracticable of ways to get Tony on his feet. _I mean, c'mon, grab the dizzy guy by the arms and pull him upright fast enough to turn dizziness into a serious case of the bends? How does this sound like a good idea? _ Tony'd always thought "bubbles in the bloodstream" sounded like a painful way to go, but, of course, he might not be conscious to feel it at all, what with the way his arms were threatening to twist out of their sockets.

Catching Gibbs' eyes on his way out, Tony smoothed a wannabe grimace of pain into the façade of a reassuring smile. He didn't really expect Gibbs to buy it, and wasn't disappointed.

Carlin had that closing-up-shop look to him, and Tony had a bad feeling about the fate of the merchandise.

* * *

Carlin stared at the rows of screens, eyes roving each display for signs of a disturbance. Mostly, though, he fixated on view six: second row, far right. He stared at _him_, the Sentinel, in whom he'd had so much hope, in whom he was beginning to realize he would only meet with resistance. Even after reading about DiNozzo's unconventional behavior in Avery's research, and after meeting the Sentinel for himself, the first time, Carlin had held out hope that, given enough time, he'd be able to change DiNozzo.

DiNozzo was swift becoming a crisis of Carlin's faith. He wanted to believe that Sentinels weren't all innately dangerous; he wanted to believe they could be trained and made efficient use of. Perhaps DiNozzo had not ruined his faith altogether, but Carlin was sensing a necessary shift in his expectations. He'd come to this self-imposed project hoping to find Sentinels, by nature, eager to please, ready and willing students. Maybe this was so, in some instances. Carlin couldn't know for sure, unless he had more test subjects, but right then he was longing for a young mind to instruct: a young Sentinel, perhaps, just coming into their abilities. That would be ideal.

A fist pounded on the door, and Carlin started, answering with more irritation than usual: "_What_?"

Harlan cracked the door, poking his head in. "It's that dog again. Been sniffing around all morning."

Carlin gave a wave of his hand. "Let it."

"It's starting to scratch at the door, and howl, 'n stuff."

"Chase it off."

"Tried that. It keeps coming back."

Carlin sighed, working on keeping a level tone. After all, he hadn't hired Harlan, Gerard, or the rest, for their sense of creativity, or great ingenuity. "Get rid of it for good, if you please, Mister Harlan."

"You mean, like, kill it?"

"Yes." The door began to close, but Carlin stopped him: "Mister Harlan?"

"Yeah?"

"No shots fired, please."

"But—"

"—I'm sure you'll think of another way, Mister Harlan. Try not to attract any undue attention, and put it in the dumpster when you're finished."

The door closed, and Carlin turned back to the screens.

The Guide was pacing the length of his room in a manner that was exhausting to watch, only stopping occasionally to look darkly at the door. The Sentinel was curled up on the cot, shoulders shaking with the occasional suppressed cough. Carlin could tell he wasn't doing well. Without medical attention he would be doing much worse, soon. He'd already toyed with the idea of finding a way to arrange for the care he needed, somehow, but it all came back to the problem staring Carlin in the face: this Sentinel would never learn to cooperate, and his Guide would only ever compound the problem.

It was a pity, and a tragic waste, but clearly this experiment was no longer feasible.

* * *

_To Be Continued..._

**Wow, has it been a busy week for me! Your reviews (even though I didn't get to respond to all of them) totally brightened my days up. So thank you for the stress-reducers. :D **

**For those of you who asked about there being any POV from Gibbs, I'm sorry to disappoint, but I find Gibbs POV, especially during angsty scenarios where he's REALLY angry, pretty difficult. I think I tried one of these chapters from his vantage and it just didn't _work_. In general that means I tend to write from Tony's perspective by default. And, yeah, I'll admit: I do like the opportunities his POV presents for snark. ;)**


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

* * *

Tony thought he heard a dog barking, somewhere. Gingerly, and with doubts as to the wisdom of the attempt, he extended his hearing. _Watch it, DiNozzo. Now is so not the time for a zone-out… _As if there ever _was_ a time for a zone-out.

Mostly, the sounds he discovered were confusing. Footsteps mingled with the barking noise, and then there were angry voices, amid which Tony could pick out "mutt," and "idiot dog." After that, it was pretty obvious what the feet belonging to the footsteps were doing to the "mutt," if the yelping sounds were any indication.

Tony winced back from the sounds of violence, knowing he was a coward for not waiting to find out how it all ended, but too worn to keep up the effort. The dog wasn't the only one being turned into an impromptu punching bag these days.

At least he'd figured out why Carlin was doing all this. It wasn't about him being a Sentinel, at least not entirely. His being a Sentinel was the side-issue. The main thing was that he'd killed Avery; Carlin was Avery's fanclub of one, come back for revenge. Ironically, that realization gave Tony a small amount of satisfaction. His plan to protect Gibbs hadn't been a complete success, but neither had it been a complete failure, after all.

The dog was yelping again. Tony wasn't sure if it was just in his head, now, 'cause he sure wasn't _trying_ to hear it anymore.

_Gah. Shuddup, already. _A guilty wish, but not all selfish. Whoever was beating the dog might just put the animal out of its misery, instead of torturing it like that. Yeah, humane killing: that was a lesson Carlin needed to learn, too. He wondered if Carlin would send Fred in to shoot him, or just leave him here die from eventual dehydration, or from beating his own head against the wall (which he would probably resort to, first).

The first shot made Tony bolt upright, reigning back on a desire to have another go with his hearing. Gun shots, plus dialed-up hearing, equaled no good. Maybe it was the sound of the dog finally being given a last mercy.

Two more shots came in quick succession, there were hurrying footsteps outside Tony's door, and then a door somewhere down the hall banged open.

"Baltimore PD, put your hands where we can see them! Now!"

Baltimore? That was news. Tony was so sidetracked by the revelation of his location that he didn't immediately consider the "PD" part—the rescue-is-here, we're-saved, part.

There was another gunshot, or two, lots more shouting, some swearing, and then at last voices started calling, "Clear!"

Tony stood, seething at his Carlin-enforced muteness, and the double handicap of hands still bound behind his back. He was considering the side-effects on his abused body were he to start ramming the door with his shoulder, versus the annoyance of simply waiting with non-existent patience, when the handle began to turn.

He really couldn't think of a time he'd been happier to see Gibbs.

Smiled broadly in lieu of any words, Tony didn't pull back, even when Gibbs (looking as if his murderous expression was becoming a permanently etched part of his face) pulled out a wicked looking knife.

No explanation was needed, but Gibbs' brief and meaningful indication of the collar. _By all means, Boss: get it off. _With anyone else, sending a mental "don't cut my throat while you're at it" might've been necessary as well. Tony just closed his eyes, glad Gibbs knew that getting the collar off was way at the top of Tony's list, over getting his hands untied, or seeing the light of day, or _even_ breaking his week-long pizza fast.

Gibbs worked carefully for what felt like a very long moment before it was finally severed. There was nothing careful about the disgust in his gesture as he cast the collar aside and turned to work on the ropes at Tony's wrists.

Tony stared at the collar, amazed at how much he'd come to loathe such a small thing in a matter of a few days.

"Boss," Tony tried, experimenting with a voice that turned out to be as painful on the ears as it was to use, "you sure Carlin hasn't warmed you up to the idea of one of these things?" He nodded his chin in the direction of the collar. "More efficient than a head-slap—just a simple click of a button—" Gibbs thunderous expression, as he stepped back, stopped Tony mid-ramble. "—that would be a _no_. But what if—"

"—I'll shoot the next person who suggests it."

Tony nodded. "I can handle that."

"C'mon."

Tony heard sirens, and stalled. "Ambulance?"

"Ambulance."

"_That_, I'm not so sure I can handle, Boss. You see—" Gibbs didn't have to stop him, because Tony stopped himself. His head hurt. His throat ached. His chest felt tight. "A hospital sounds like a great idea, Boss."

"I thought so."

"Say, Boss, how'd you convince the police you were one of the good guys?" Tony gave Gibbs a sideways glance. "I'm assuming, since the ambulance was your idea, they do know who we are, and aren't about to start shooting the moment we step out…"

"They found our badges with Carlin."

"_And_," Tony continued, when Gibbs didn't, "you cooperated, so, smart guys that Baltimore cops generally are, they not only put I.D. and face together, but they also instinctively knew better than to try and get between Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs and one of his team—and, just like that, they called an ambulance, gave you the knife, and got outta the way."

Gibbs raised an eyebrow. "Something like that."

"Boss, about how the cops found us to begin with," Tony began slowly, looking at the doorway, the crossing of which suddenly seemed monumental, "there was this dog making a racket outside…"

Gibbs looked inscrutable, which Tony hated, but was used to. Maybe he knew something, or maybe he knew everything, but right now the look in his eye said "it can wait."

Tony sighed, clearing his throat, in what was a not-so-bright action.

Tony'd always wondered if you really could hack up a lung—had, in fact, come pretty close during his bought with the Y Pestis. This wasn't quite that bad. Not _quite_. On the bright side, he no longer had to worry about the collar going off, but on the cloudier side, he still definitely needed to worry about another visit with the floor.

Thankfully, Tony didn't need to be able to see past the little black dots obscuring his vision into order to know it was Gibbs who unceremoniously caught him, supporting him in a way that was becoming for too familiar to both of them.

First there were cops everywhere, and then EMTs swarmed them—but not before Tony caught a glimpse of the dog, lying dead outside the door. Gibbs hauled him with gentle force past the sight, but Tony craned his head, feeling a cold, hard lump lodge itself in his throat.

"That was her." Tony wasn't sure if the whisper was a question, or a statement for his own benefit. He _really_ didn't want to have correctly recognized that that crumpled mass of bloody fur. It could've been any dog. Any stupid dog, raising a racket, for any reason… _Come on_, _DiNozzo, this isn't "Lassie Come Home."_ It was just some idiot mutt, looking for a handout; a concerned citizen makes a call to Animal Control: and voila, coincidence saves the day.

Trust Gibbs to know what he needed to hear, even if it wasn't what he wanted to hear. _Especially_ when it wasn't something he wanted to hear.

"Yeah, it was," Gibbs confirmed quietly what Tony already knew, just before the EMTs got to them, "Semper Fi, DiNozzo."

Any other day, gracing a dog's memory with the motto of Marines might've seemed funny. Any other day.

* * *

"McGee, _come on_." Ziva slung her backpack over her shoulder, striding for the elevator without waiting to see if McGee complied.

"I'm coming, just a—"

"_McGee_."

McGee put the phone back in its cradle, mid-dial. "Abby—"

"Where are you and Ziva going?"

Abby was in perpetual state of hypertension these days. Just _looking_ at her was to suddenly become tense, yourself. Without Gibbs, or Tony, around, Ducky was the best at calming her down; right now, though, she looked like she needed a sedative.

McGee opened his mouth to answer her, but she cut him off, jumping to the worst-case scenario, as was her tendency lately.

"Oh my God," she said, wide-eyed, the words a desperate prayer for someone to contradict her, "you got a call. They're both dead."

"Abby." It was hard to be stern with Abby, but it was for her own good, right then, and McGee tapped into an emergency ration of nerve. He came around the desk, putting a hand on each of her shoulders, forcing her to meet his eyes. "I was just going to call you. The police found them. They are _not_ dead."

"Oh God, oh God…" Abby took up the mantra, making flailing gestures of panic. "We couldn't find them—we didn't do enough, fast enough—and that creep Carlin hurt them, didn't he? He's had them for over a week; _of_ _course_ he's hurt them. Oh God…"

"_Abby_," McGee said, with even more force, suddenly realizing he knew exactly what she needed: direction. "Ziva and I are going to meet the police at the building where Carlin was keeping them, to collect evidence. You get Ducky, and go to Bethesda. Call me on my cell as soon as you know how Gibbs and Tony are doing."

"Right. Right…" Abby gave a jerky bob of her head. "I'll go now."

McGee patted her shoulder with an encouraging smile—and ran for the elevator, trying to keep his own nerves in check.

* * *

**To Be Continued...**

A/N:_ Thank you, everyone, for the reviews! Even though I've been too busy to respond to them all, I enjoy every last one of them. :D_

_(And, yes, I do feel like a terrible person for killing poor Lassie. :s)_


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

* * *

Tony dreamed about drowning, again. It was becoming predictable, really: his head went down under the waves, and just when he knew he was a goner, his brain would resurface, gasping into consciousness.

This time though, there was wrench in the works. Tony woke, alright, but it was to renewed panic, as he realized there was something covering his face. He surged upright, trying to make his lungs work, gagging on a cough that left him feeling so out of breath he might as well have still been under water.

"Easy, DiNozzo. Hospital."

Information didn't come much more concise then that. But concise was good. Right then, concise was _brilliant_. But even with Gibbs' efficient scene-setting, he couldn't help but shy away from the thing—whatever it was—that Gibbs was trying to cover his mouth with, again. He must've made a sound of distress as he panted and tried to swat it away, because Gibbs was explaining with yet more patience:

"Oxygen mask. Let it do its job."

Tony still shivered at the sensation as he let Gibbs replace the oxygen mask, but he had to admit, a few deep inhalations later, thanks to it, his wheezing had stopped feeling quite so desperate.

Heart rate slowing from a gallop to a mere canter, Tony turned his head enough to squint at Gibbs. He looked rough, but not as rough as he'd looked the last time Tony had seen him. Those hospital chairs could sure do a number on you.

"You look worse."

Tony frowned. "'Nough with the tel'pathy," he mumbled through the mask. Man, his throat hurt.

"Here." Gibbs lifted the mask and supporting Tony's head enough for him to take a sip of water out of the cup he proffered. Only it wasn't water, but ice chips—the best-tasting ice chips Tony had ever let melt on his tongue. He closed his eyes and let the cool water trickle down his aching throat.

The highlights of his whirlwind tour of the ER were coming back to him. His memories got foggier, however, the more he tried to remember the details. He'd heard the whole alphabet, though, he was pretty sure. It had been worse than an interdepartmental turf-war. There'd been a CT scan (painless), a blood panel and ABG work (less painless), and myriad of people bandying other acronyms, and medical jargon, back and forth, until Tony had finally decided focusing on breathing was of primary importance.

He did remember Gibbs being there, and a doctor (he assumed) showing Tony an x-ray of his lungs, pointing out a white mass on the left side, and telling him he was the proud owner of case of pneumonia. Doc had thrown a few fun-sounding tongue-twisters at him, but specific names eluded Tony, and he wasn't keen on finding them. Whatever he had, it pretty much boiled down to him feeling like so much gum scraped off someone's shoe.

That didn't really explain the hospital, though. People usually dealt with pneumonia as out-patients, right? Tony wondered what else the doc had said after he'd…gone hazy.

"Boss?" The mask was back in place, helping his breathing as before, but making speech difficult. "Why'm I here?"

Thankfully Gibbs wasn't the sort to take the question as the cosmic, meaning-of-life non sequitur Tony _hadn't_ intended it to be.

"Well, gee, DiNozzo, I'm not sure. It seemed to strike the doctor as a good idea to admit you, somewhere in the time between when you started to run a fever, and the time you started vomiting, and coughing up blood."

Huh. So that's when things had started to get hazy.

"So… That means m'not going home?"

"DiNozzo," Gibbs growled, "you had the plague."

"Something not very many people can say."

The voice sounded pretty—and Tony wasn't disappointed by the blond nurse, entering. Tony slid the mask down long enough to flash a full-watt smile, which she returned _very_ prettily. This almost made it a hospital stay worthwhile.

"Now, keep that on," she admonished, indicating the mask, "your boss is right: pneumonia like this isn't a laughing matter, especially with the scarring you've got on your lungs. Y Pestis," she shook her head with a chuckle, "that's quite the survival story, Agent DiNozzo."

"Never do 'nything by halves," Tony boasted. "'N it's jus' Tony."

"_Well_, Tony, I'm Cassie, and I'll be your nurse this evening."

"Like the sound of that."

"Down, boy."

Tony humored Gibbs and contented himself with watching Nurse Cassie as she worked, jotting something down on his chart.

"Your temp's down a bit," she commented. "Now if only you could coax your oxygen sats _up_."

"'M trying."

"Any more nausea?"

"Nope," he answered, truthfully. It wasn't like he could get away with anything else with Gibbs staring right through him like that.

Tony coughed: a gross, wet sound in the quiet room that made him cringe.

"Here, let's sit you up a bit more," Cassie suggested.

Gibbs' hand was on his back, then, helping him lean forward while Cassie added a pillow and adjusted the bed into a little more upright position.

"You rest, and give the antibiotics a chance to work. Anything else I can get you?"

A new pair of lungs came to mind. Tony just smiled through the mask. "M'good."

"See that you stay that way, huh? You gave everyone quite the scare this morning when you were brought in."

She left, and Tony took to studying the ceiling very intently. And breathing. He felt Gibbs' presence—and all the questions he wanted to ask Gibbs—keenly.

"I passed out, di'n't I?" seemed like as good a segue as any.

"You _are_ allowed." Gibbs was matter-of-fact.

That wasn't the point, but Tony didn't argue. "You don't have to stay, Boss. I'm sure the team would like to hear from you." Out of the corner of his eye, Tony saw Gibbs smile with an exasperated shake of his head. "What?"

"McGee and Ziva were here a few hours after you were admitted. The only reason they weren't here sooner was because they went to Baltimore first to claim jurisdiction and process the scene."

"Oh." Tony wasn't about to ask about Abby and Ducky. He didn't need to know. Of course they were all worried about him; he didn't need a constant stream of visitors to tell him that. Gibbs had probably called them—or Ziva and McGee had called them—with an update.

"Ducky and Abby were here ten minutes after you were admitted."

"Oh," Tony said again, feeling thoroughly transparent. It really wasn't fair to take advantage of a guy on his death bed, when all his defences were down.

"Yeah, _oh_," Gibbs replied tolerantly. "Abby's been here three times."

"_Four_ times, now," said a pleased-sounding Abby, standing in the doorway. She hugged Tony with inordinate gentleness. "You're awake," she whispered the obvious happily in his ear, with an extra squeeze she apparently couldn't restrain. "_Tony_," sometimes the way Abby could say your name, it was like a second hug. "I was so _worried_ about you."

"Abbs—"

"And don't you dare say you're sorry," Abby continued, not relinquishing her hold yet. "I mean, you should be sorry. You worried me sick. You had us _all_ worried sick. Only you shouldn't _really_ be sorry, because none of this was your fault. Except maybe the part where you haven't been taking good enough care of yourself, to begin with. And for leaving us, of course. But that's not what I mean."

Tony held the mask away from his mouth enough to articulate more clearly: "So…am I apologizing or not?"

"No." Abby stepped back, reconsidering. "Maybe. Later."

"Jus' lemme know when."

Abby pulled a chair up, reaching out to comb his hair into order with her fingers—then, with a quirk of her lips, mussed it instead.

"Hey." Tony knew his protest was feeble, at best. "Boss, make 'er stop." Abby and Gibbs only exchanged a glance over his head. Tony crossed his arms. "Not fair. Don't feel good."

"Time for someone's nap," Abby pronounced with a last pat to his head.

"S'nighttime."

Abby made sure the oxygen mask was covering his mouth, and secured it in place by way of the elastic strap. "Sweet dreams."

"Mmph," was the only complaint Tony could think of, and he only made it as a token show of resistance. He _was_ tired, the simple act of breathing in and out when it felt like someone was sitting on his chest draining him more than he cared to admit. "Night…Abbs…"

As he fell asleep, he heard, without really comprehending, Abby and Gibbs talking quietly—a soothing sound that conquered the last of his resistance.

"Gibbs? McGee says Carlin's still alive."

"He surrendered."

"If you need help, you know, covering up evidence when you kill him, you do know I'm right there—right? And I also know this ex-Mossad assassin, and this super-geek, and a _really_ _great_ doctor down in autopsy…"

"Might take you up on that, Abbs."

"Just say the word, Bossman."

* * *

Abby, McGee, Ziva, and Ducky were all frequent visitors—turned out Tony couldn't stop them from coming, not with hints that he was fine, or with out-right insistence that he'd continue to be fine without constant supervision. Ziva just smiled, McGee had patted his knee (the Probie was developing altogether _too much_ backbone; but, then, he'd been trained by the best), Ducky had given him a "dear boy" speech that had put Tony to shame for ever making a fuss, and Abby had given him such a look of reproach he'd finally surrendered to their collective need to thoroughly coddle him.

As for Gibbs… Well, Tony had discovered a long time ago that trying to get Gibbs to stop being exactly where he wanted to be was pretty much a stupid idea. Tony really had no leverage, either. Somehow, Gibbs seemed to have put a spell on all the nurses that left them smiling leniently at him, even during his after-hour visits. In response to a private, sheepish comment Tony had made to Cassie—"a real terror, my boss, huh?"—Tony had been bewildered at her response. According to her, Gibbs was better than most patients' family members about letting the nurses do their jobs—and Tony was "pretty lucky" to have someone like him around.

Yeah, okay. So he was pretty lucky, and in more ways than one. The antibiotics were doing the trick, apparently, even though Tony continued to feel like road-kill. He didn't mention the road-kill bit, because there was talk of release, and no way was he ruining his chance of escape. He even ate some of the food, which _tasted_ like road-kill.

McGee and Ziva had briefed Tony on the case. Most of Carlin's goons had panicked, and with good reason considering that they all had impressive records of the illegal sort. As a result, the shoot-out between them and the Baltimore PD had turned into a bloodbath, but with minor injures alone on the side of the cops, and all the casualties on the side of Team Carlin. A Fred Harlan, and a Pete Gerard, were among those dead, something which Gibbs had looked grimly pleased about. Tony hadn't shed any tears, either.

In the best of news, Carlin was in jail, and Abby was busy pouring over the treasure-trove of evidence Ziva and McGee had brought her (Tony was trying hard not to think about things like the video feeds, and the collar, that she'd be going over with a fine-tooth comb). And, of course, there were Tony, and Gibbs', statements. Vance was working much bureaucratic magic, keeping a tight rein on things so as to ensure that no one who wasn't already in the know found out anything Sentinel-related.

All and all, things were stacking up very nicely against Carlin.

When Tony hadn't gone and (figuratively) died from happiness at the end of McGee's report, and instead demanded "What about the dog?" the Probie had looked confused for a moment. Finally, Tony had gotten a sheepish "Oh, _that_ dog…" and an explanation. The dog's howling had gotten the attention of some concerned citizen, after all. The son of said concerned citizen—a six-year-old—had slipped out while mommy was on the phone with Animal Control, his intent to single-handedly put a stop to the bullies picking on a defenceless animal. Tony gave the kid points for guts, but he didn't need McGee's "the situation got dangerous" to paint a picture of how the kid's crusade had gone. The police had gotten called in, then, and Tony didn't need McGee's "things got ugly" to paint a picture of _that_ encounter, either.

Tony pretended to fall asleep, soon after, having quickly discovered it was the most effective way to get a little privacy. He hated how angry he felt at that dog for saving his life with its obnoxiousness—sacrificing herself like that—but he couldn't deny the fact that it had saved his life, and Gibbs'. And to think, he'd never even named it. He supposed Lassie was as good a name as any.

"I wouldn't let the doc catch you chuckling to yourself like that, if you wanna get out today, Tony."

Abby's voice made Tony start. "Oh, hey, Abbs. Wait…today?"

"Yup." She sat down on the edge of the bed. "That really nice nurse, what's her name—"

"—Cassie."

"Cassie, yeah. She was just telling me the doc's sounding more positive, that way. No promises, of course—and you didn't hear it _here_," Abby said sternly, before winking at him, "but I have a feeling the DiNozzo charm can work it."

"Home," Tony said wistfully, ruining the moment with a small cough.

Abby looked pensively at him. "You sure you _should_ be convincing them you're ready to go home?"

"Abby, I have never been more ready in my life."

Of course, nothing was as simple as it sounded. When the doctor came making his rounds that afternoon, Gibbs—who'd been at the office—made one of his magic appearances out of thin air. Then the doctor had made it clear that, while he was pleased with Tony's response to the antibiotics, he wouldn't release Tony unless it was clear there would be someone to "look after him." The doctor had begun uncertainly, "With Agent Gibbs, here, listed as your next of kin, I'm assuming you don't have family close, who could…" into which Gibbs had interjected with no uncertainty, "He'll be staying with me." Tony had opened his mouth to protest that one loudly, but a look from his boss, and the realization that cooperation was his only way out of this place, Tony had sat back with a sigh.

Tony suffered all the parting instructions with good grace, and when Cassie came for him with the wheelchair he just let himself be helped into it, not making her parrot "Hospital Policy" at him.

Abby had unwillingly parted from them in the parking lot, making lots of promises of visits as she helped Tony into the passenger side of Gibbs' car.

Gibbs producing a blanket to spread over Tony's knees was the _last straw_.

"Boss, I'm not an invalid."

Gibbs raised an eyebrow as he started the car and pulled out. "It's thirty-nine degrees out, DiNozzo."

"I've got a jacket."

"You want me to turn around and park again?"

"I've got a jacket _and_ a blanket." Tony's smile was overly bright. "I think I'm set." The car had slowed, ominously, and Tony knew better than to assume Gibbs didn't mean a threat. "No more hospital. Please, Boss."

Gibbs shot him a look. The car sped up.

"It's a nice blanket, too, Boss."

Gibbs shot him a _don't-overdo-it_ look.

Tony waited until they'd put some distance between themselves and the hospital before trying to broach another subject. He was pretty sure he already knew what Gibbs was going to say, but he had to try, anyways. "About what the doctor said, about someone watching me, and you volunteering." He traced one of the lines that patterned the blanket with a finger. "You could just, you know, check up on me at my apartment. And I could check in—call—that sort of thing."

Gibbs's took a sharp turn, not answering.

"It's not that I don't appreciate it. But you know what they say about guests after three days, and I've been crashing your place for way more than three days…" Tony looked away from trying to read Gibbs' expression. He would've had more luck trying to read a book written in Vulcan.

The car pulled down a side street Tony recognized. They weren't going to Tony's apartment. He felt his frustration peak.

"Look, Boss… I just don't want to complicate things any more for you."

"Is that what you think?"

Tony looked sideways at Gibbs, who was definitely looking at him now, and making him wish he hadn't wished for eye-contact. Now he was the one to look dead ahead, and school his features. "Well, no." On second thought… "Well, _yeah_." Probably using up his quota of "well"s for the next month, Tony retorted to Gibbs' non-answer with a defensive, "Well, you have to admit, I _have_ been getting pretty good at it. Complicating things."

They pulled into Gibbs' driveway, parked. Tony felt the rebellious urge to refuse to get out or the car rise within him.

"Tony, I'm not your dad."

Tony resisted the urge to look at Gibbs. He was on strike, here. "No kidding." He cleared his throat, willing a coughing fit not to interrupt his display of temper. "I kinda figured that one out."

"You sure about that?"

Tony really hated Gibbs' trick questions. Keeping the rebellious spark alive in his tone, he replied, still without looking at Gibbs, "Yeah. I'm sure." He _was_ sure. Gibbs was ten times the man his father was. They were nothing alike. "The resemblance just isn't there," he quipped lightly. "The whole Marine hair cut, ya know? My dad would never go for it. Not that there's anything wrong with _you_ going for it, Boss…"

"I didn't volunteer to look after you because I felt _obligated_ to. Not when this Sentinel business started, and not now."

"It suits you, it really does—" Tony stopped talking, as what Gibbs had said registered. He paused for comedic effect, before trying, "And you feel obligated to tell me that, because…" He licked his lips nervously. "Shutting up."

Gibbs didn't sound angry, though, just adamant. "_Because_, DiNozzo, your dad should've been the one to get it through your thick skull a long time ago."

"Gotten what through…exactly?" Tony asked, not sure he wanted the answer, but liking the idea of never knowing what "it" was even less.

"That being complicated doesn't make you too much to bother with."

"You sure about that?" Tony laughed. You could almost hear the crickets chirping somewhere in the following silence. "Right. You're Gibbs; you're sure." He frowned. The problem was, _he_ wasn't Gibbs. "But you're _sure_? I mean, some people are…really complicated."

"Some people are worth it."

Tony considered.

Gibbs cut him off mid-thought. "Yeah, I'm _sure_, DiNozzo." He pulled the keys out of the ignition and opened his door.

Tony followed him, and figured now was as good a time as any to push his luck by asking, "You ever thought about making the switch to HD, Boss? I mean, obviously that would involve buying an actual _TV_, for starters. Maybe a flat-panel with surround sound, or—"

"—Taken under advisement."

"Thanks, Boss."

* * *

_To Be Continued_

**A/N:** Almost 100 reviews! Wow! Thank you, everyone. :3 I hope this chapter supplied the answers you guys were wondering about. Now for some rather lengthy H/C (which was somewhat lacking in _Wrath_). ;) And, no, if anyone's wondering, Gibbs _isn't_ through with Carlin.

Also, I'm going to _try_ and speed up postings a bit so that I can finish before I leave on vacation in May. Of course, busy as my week is looking, that'll almost certainly mean I'll continue to be remiss about responding. Hopefully speedier updates will make up for it. :D

I hope (everyone who celebrates) had a wonderful Easter!


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

* * *

The quiet was the first indication that something was off, confirming the warning in Gibbs' gut that had brought him down in the first place.

Abby was clutching Bert to herself in a death-hug, turning on her heel as Gibbs came in. Her eyes were red from crying, and twin tracks of smeared mascara ran down her cheeks.

Over her shoulder, Gibbs found the cause of the tears in an image frozen on the computer screen. Gibbs was caught by the too-familiar sight, with remembered helpless anger. He pulled himself back to the present, where Tony was no longer curled up and shivering on the floor like a kicked dog.

He looked back at Abby, but her eyes were fixed on something else. Gibbs only glanced at the collar, in its evidence bag, laid out on the steel table. The sight triggered in him the urge to destroy it for good, but he pushed that aside, as well.

"Abbs."

She started at hearing her name, but kept staring.

"_Abby._"

Her lower lip stuck out slightly, in classic Abby Pout, but her chin trembled with something more than her brand of everyday drama. "I should've know—you know?—the way Tony was when he came back, and the way he talked about…stuff. And I should've known when McGee brought in…that." She continued to stare at the collar, as if it might escape if she looked away. "I should've known before I watched the feed. But I really, really didn't want to go there, 'cause no one's _that_ mean." Her lips formed a tight line for a second. "But I guess they are." She hugged Bert tighter. Apparently the hippo was already squeezed past the point of making a noise. "How could he do that to our Tony?"

Another tear tracked make-up down Abby's cheek, as she looked to Gibbs for answers that he couldn't give her.

Abby turned back to the computer screen, setting Bert aside to jab at a few keys. The hitch in her voice (clearly caused by more than a few minute's crying) made her words jerk here and there. "Thanks for the…Caff-Pow, but I don't think I could…stomach it right now."

Gibbs had rarely seen Abby curl into herself, defensively, like this. That was more on Tony's list of reactions. More than that, Abby never turned down Caff-Pow.

Setting his declined offering down, Gibbs put a hand on her shoulder.

"I could just _punch_ something."

Thankfully, she didn't mean him. Even as she exploded in anger, Abby turned in response to his touch, clinging to him with a strength that gave Gibbs a good idea of what Bert had been going through.

He let her talk.

"I was trying to avoid watching them at all—that's why I'm just getting to them now—but I should've watched them sooner. Not that I should've _wanted_ to watch them, but I should've just sucked it up and done it earlier. And don't you say you wished you'd stopped me from watching them at all," Abby admonished, quickly rushing past anything Gibbs might've said, "because someone had to process all the evidence, and it had to be someone who was already in on the Sentinel stuff. And besides… I had to know, even though I know Tony would rather that nobody ever watched them. I needed to see what happened to him, for myself, so I could understand. Only…" she trailed off, resting her chin on Gibbs' shoulder. "I don't understand at all, Bossman." Her voice hiccupped. "I don't understand, and I really want to put that collar on Carlin and fry him to within an inch of his life. For real."

Gibbs was tempted to give her a chance to do just that. For real. Instead, he cupped the back of her head with a hand, and let her talk some more.

"I mean, how can he treat Sentinels like they're somehow _sub-human_? Carlin's the one who's a freak. He's probably just jealous." She sniffed, gave a small shudder. "And you know what the worst part is? I can't _say_ anything. You can protest racism, or the inhumane treatment of animals, or the price of gas, or the squandering of sticky-notes, or…whatever. But I can't say anything about Sentinels, 'cause that would only make things more dangerous for them, and what Carlin did to Tony makes me want to go and protest in Times Square with a big 'Stop Hurting the Sentinels' painted on a sign—and maybe start a petition, and make a video to post on YouTube, showing how much Tony does out in the field, using his powers for _good_, and…" She sighed heavily. "I feel so _guilty_, Gibbs." She cut him of before he could say anything: "And don't '_hey_' me all sternly for saying that, either. I know Tony wouldn't want me to feel guilty, but I can't help it, because it's so unfair that we all get to go on with life as usual, and he gets this kind of treatment just for having abilities that make him even better at doing what he's already good at, which is protecting people—like Carlin. And then people like Carlin go and hurt him, making it impossible for him just to do his job, and... It's just so _unfair_."

"I know, Abbs—I know."

They were quiet for a minute, before Abby mused a little listlessly, "This is definitely my longest hug, ever."

Gibbs snorted softly. "However long you need."

"Those are dangerous words, Bossman."

Apparently, though, she needed just a little longer. Gibbs could feel her still hitching with sobs unleashed, and sobs still held in.

Finally, she pulled away, swiping at the traces of still-drying tears with the back of her hand, and only managing to make a smeary job of it. "You could be in that YouTube video, too, you know. As Tony's Guide."

"You think I'd let a _stuntman_ take my place?"

"You two would _so_ get millions of hits." Abby managed a small shadow of smirk at Gibbs' blank expression. "Do you even know what YouTube _is_?"

"Drink your Caff-Pow."

* * *

Tony folded the sweater with almost military precision. Right now, Gibbs' guest room felt like a paradise of privacy; a place to linger, and catch his breath. He'd been running for a long time. To recycle the handy cliché, it felt like forever.

Fingers lingering on the soft material as he laid it out on the bed, he dialed his sense of touch up just enough to appreciate the texture, smiling a little at how strange it was to be able to count the tight weave so easily by feel alone. It was a dark navy sweater. Just the right size. Definitely his style. Mostly, though, he could tell Abby had picked it out for functionality. It had been her way of lecturing him on keeping warm, and giving him the means to do so.

It was ironic, really, her and Gibbs. For being at the opposite ends of the spectrum in appearances and personalities, the two of them could be surprisingly similar in how they showed their concern. They didn't just tell you "take care of yourself." They told you, sure (Abby more overtly; Gibbs often with a _look_), and if you didn't do it to their satisfaction, then _they_ would show you how it was done, and in very tangible ways.

Tony had hardly worn Abby's present, though, taking the sweater out mostly when Abby was around, to make a point of showing her that he liked it. He really _did_ like it—that was the point. He hadn't been about to let Carlin get his greedy hands on it. The guy had already decimated his wardrobe (or made it disappear, at least) once, when he'd caught Tony the first time, back when his duffel bag had been better stocked (that first duffel had been considerably nicer, too). Before hitting the road, he'd sorted through his closet, paring his selections down to favorites that were on the more practical, toned-down side of showy.

He'd really liked those clothes.

In the interim where he'd been back, before the hostage situation in the coffee shop, Tony could've replaced most of the clothes, but something had held him back. He'd bought enough to get by on—and, of course, he hadn't brought any of his suits along earlier, so there were still those—but it felt too soon to restock in a serious way, when he couldn't shake the sense he was still being hunted.

Maybe he'd just figured if he mentioned a shopping trip Gibbs would assume he meant Wal-Mart.

Yeah, that was definitely it: threat of Wal-Mart.

Of course, there was the other possibility, that he'd just gotten so used to living like a bum, he'd learned to actually _like_ it. God knew suits felt uncomfortable and restrictive these days. Starched white shirts itched, no matter the detergent he used, and ties… Well, he hadn't even given that a proper try, yet. The thought made him gingerly rub his throat where the marks the collar had left still hadn't faded entirely. He really needed a turtle-neck.

_What next, DiNozzo? Good-bye Chinos, hello buy-one-get-one-free? _Whatever. There were worse things. For instance, he could be some freak of nature, with maniacs out for his blood. Oh…right, he _was_, and they _were_. So shoot him if bargain-shopping, versus never settling for less than designer shoes, had ceased to be a matter of life and death.

Besides, it wasn't like he'd really lost his sense of fashion taste. Chinos simply didn't go with the hobo look, and Tony was all about uniformity of appearance. If you couldn't have the best, then at least have the decency and class to _thoroughly_ dress your worst.

It really hadn't been so bad being a nomad. There had whole days at a time where he'd almost been content. Certain familiar settings had fit like a glove—those universal stores that looked the same everywhere you went, and let you forget that you'd ever left home. Or there were those places that looked just like he'd imagine they'd look: the main street of small-town Middle-of-Nowhere, complete with drug store, bakery, bar, grocery store, and barber. Oh, yeah, and the video store. Can't forget the video store.

Movies were always familiar turf.

_The woman had been perusing the aisles when Tony had come in, and every time he saw her she was looking more perplexed than before. She was the grandmotherly type: steel-grey hair pinned into an immaculate bun at the top of her head, glasses (not _strictly _horn-rimmed) perched on the end of her nose, and clothes all clearly from a different era—or, at least, a different era of taste. _

_She smiled at Tony as they passed each other. It was a very grandmotherly smile, too, but brief, and quick to recede once again behind a frown of deep thought. Obviously, the job of movie-selector was not a role she often found herself in. _

_They were the lone customers, and Tony couldn't help but see the irony in their separate plights. Here he was, looking just for the sake of looking: to him, the rows of covers were like so many friendly faces, as steady a constant as anything in his life these days. And there she was, out of her element, looking more like a sheep among wolves than anything. _

_Tony could've no more left someone to be mugged._

_He found her in the mystery section, and perused his way closer in a casual manner. _

"_Agatha Christie fan?"_

_She looked up, not hostile but reserved. "I beg your pardon?"_

_Tony nodded at the movie she held. "Agatha Christie—Inspector Hercule Poirot. You know, 'Ze little grey cells'?" He was good with accents, if he did say so himself._

"_Oh. Oh—yes," she said, finally following. She looked at the movie in her hands with that sheep-among-wolves look. "But I'm not particularly interested, no."_

"_Miss Marple was really her masterpiece, anyways."_

_She gave him an assessing look. "You'll pardon me saying so, but you don't seem quite like the type to like…"_

"_A woman of mature age who can still kick butt?" He flashed her a grin. "What's not cool about that, I ask you."_

_She set Inspector Poirot back on the shelf, assessing him more fully, with a thoughtful smile. "You seem to have a broad taste in movies." He appreciated her not adding "for a young man of your age."_

"_I just generally have a taste for movies."_

"_But you don't work here, do you?"_

_That would be her diplomatically not mentioning that, considering the state his clothes were in, he didn't look like he could be working _anywhere_. She didn't mean to offend, though, so Tony wasn't._

"_Nope. Just window shopping." _

_She looked back at the choices spread out before her, sighing. "And I, unfortunately, am on a mission to pick something out for a weekend with the grandchildren. Evan was particularly adamant he didn't want something 'full of _kissing_,' and Naomi is just the opposite. She does get so annoyed with her brother's constant need for something action-packed… I'll confess, I side more with Naomi, but I was hoping to find a happy medium—something with _plot_, preferably." She gave a small, self-deprecating laugh, as she picked up another movie at random. "But I guess I really don't have a clue what I'm doing here." _

"_When in doubt, go with what's tried and true."_

_She gave him a hopeful glance. "You have a suggestion?"_

"_I always have suggestions. It's an audience I'm usually lacking."_

"_Oh, I find that hard to believe," she said, taking the arm he'd offered in impulsive gallantry. "I'm ready to pay you more than a penny for sharing your thoughts on the matter with a clueless old woman, who's gotten herself in over her head."_

"_Wouldn't take a dime, Madam." _

"_It's Hannah, please."_

"_Well, then, Hannah, only allow Tony the pleasure of directing your attention to the 'Classics' section." He guided her away from the mysteries. "You see, you can't try and find all the things you're looking for in one movie, 'cause more likely than not you'll just wind up with something that does a little bit of everything a little bit good—and generally does everything a whole lot bad. Usually there's no room for this thing called plot in that sort of thing, either. But _here_," he said, stopping her in front of the "Classics" genre, with a sweeping gesture, "is true cinematic genius."_

"_Do go on," Hannah invited._

_Tony scanned the titles. "Well, what can I say, if you just look around, there are so many good—"_

"—_no, I'm begging you, no more choices, or I'll never decide. What do _you_ like?" _

"_If you insist."_

"_I do."_

"_How long a weekend are we talking?" _

"_Early Friday night, to Monday morning." She raised an eyebrow meaningfully. "Evan is _very_ energetic."_

"_Gottcha." Tony made his first selection. "Here, 'Lawrence of Arabia' for mister no-kissing, and, for the ladies, 'Roman Holiday.' You can't go wrong with Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck." _

_She studied them for a moment. "Yes, these will do very well, I think. I'm indebted to you, Tony."_

"_Don't mention it." He honestly wished she wouldn't. The gratitude shining in her eyes was very, very grandmotherly—like she was volunteering to be _his_ grandmother—and her eyes were too penetrating. Not very many people actually stopped to get a good look at you these days, a fact that had been serving Tony just fine since he'd left D.C. He wasn't looking to _be_ seen. Tony stuck his hands in his pockets, shrugged, smiled. "Just enjoy. Survive that weekend, huh?"_

"_Thank you. But are you sure I can't—"_

"—_Yes, I'm sure," Tony cut her off more sharply than he'd intended, seeing her lips draw together in a thin line of concern over the care-worn state his clothes—reading the sign on his forehead that said 'drifter'—and beginning to open her purse to pay him way more than anyone deserved for giving a simple movie recommendation. _

_She lowered her purse, sighing. "You…take care of yourself, Tony."_

_Tony lingered, smiling over a few more titles, as she left to check out. _

"_Hey."_

_Recognizing the speaker as the guy from behind the counter—now watching him from the end-cap—Tony instinctively tensed for confrontation. Technically, what he'd been doing for the past forty-five minutes could've fallen under the category of "loitering." _

"_Yeah, don't worry, wrapping it up." Tony pretended to consider one more movie, before shrugging. "Guess it's TV tonight, after all." He brushed past the guy._

"_You lookin' for a job?"_

_Tony paused. "No. But I'm always game for a job looking for _me_."_

_The man snorted. "You got Mrs. Aberdeen raving about your helpful expertise and polite manners. Marks to ya for that."_

"_Thanks. I do have a way about me."_

_The man snorted again. Marks to him for having a sense of humor. "Anyone who can turn _Hannah_ into a repeat customer is someone I could use."_

"_How do you know her if she never comes here?" Tony asked, evading answering. _

_The man laughed outright. "You don't come from a small town, do ya, son?"_

_Tony turned to look at him. "That obvious, huh?"_

"'_Fraid so. But what do you say about hiring on?"_

_People didn't say "hiring on" anymore, did they? Only in small town U.S.A.… "I really don't know what my agent would say."_

"_Now, don't play coy with me. You're not that irresistible."_

"_I like your vocabulary," Tony complimented, while he thought. And really, why not? "Fine. My agent's always telling me to broaden my horizons. You do seem short-handed."_

"_It's that idiot kid I hired. Gets sick a lot."_

"_How dare he."_

_His new employer looked at him wryly. "It always hits him real bad when his sweetheart comes back home from college, dontcha know."_

"_Ah. Love-sickness. That can't be helped." Tony smiled dazzlingly at the guarded expression that garnered him. "Not that I've ever come down with it myself. 'Sides, I'm a quick healer."_

Gah. What is it about people in this town?_ Now, this guy was looking at him with the penetrating stare Hannah had used—the kind that made Tony feel as if all his past was some kind of open book. _

_Tony cleared his throat. "When do I start?"_

"_Being that I'm down a man…"_

"_Now. Right."_

"_Name's Gail, by the way," he said, offering a hand. "I appreciate the help."_

"_Yeah, sure—and it's Tony." Tony's stomach chose that moment to rumble loudly. He winced at the sound breaking the quiet of the store. _

"_Might wanna get yourself some dinner 'fore you start, Tony."_

_Tony thought about the five-dollar bill in his wallet—his last—and shook his head. "Nah. If I fed my stomach every time it whined I'd never get any peace." He grinned weakly. "Nag, nag, nag."_

_Any more of that knowing look from Gail—who _didn't_ know Tony, any more than Tony knew him—and he was going to turn around and leave. He glanced sideways at the duffel bag he'd left outside the door under the awning, padlocked to the bike-rail. He felt the overpowering need to retrieve it and be on his __way. This whole detour had been a bad idea._

"_Look, you seem nice, son…"_

_Tony knew a dismissal when he heard one. "Yeah, well." He shrugged, as if to say "only so much of me to go around," and finished more seriously: "You seem pretty nice yourself, Gail. Thanks for the offer."_

"_Hey, wait up, there," Gail stopped him before he could reach the door. "I was _going_ to say, you seem nice—and, what with Mrs. Aberdeen singing your praises, and you filling in on short notice like this, well… Seems like giving you a bit of pay in advance would be reasonable."_

"_And here I thought I wasn't _that_ irresistible." _

"_What can I say? Good help's hard to find." Gail looked bemused at his own generosity. "So…what do ya say?"_

_Tony tore his eyes away from his bag, forcing his shoulders to relax. The idea of giving that lonely five-dollar bill in his wallet some company was definitely alluring. "I say good work's pretty hard to find." He smiled weakly. "And a good boss is even harder." How long had it been since he'd said "boss"? It was a foreign word on his tongue. _

"_Mind you, when I say a 'bit of pay,' I don't mean a small fortune."_

"_I don't expect to be paid more than my work is worth, Sir," Tony replied levelly._

"_Good." Gail was obviously satisfied with whatever he'd seen, turning towards the cash register. "And you can drop the 'sir.'" He looked up from behind the counter, when Tony didn't move. "What're you waiting for? Get that bag of yours and put it in the back room. Then you can stop that stomach of yours from whining. I'll show you the ropes, after."_

_Tony looked at the ten-dollar bill Gail held out, pride clashing with the want—the _need_—just to take the offer for what it was: a simple bit of human kindness, and a display of trust, given without cynicism. Only, there was nothing simple about kindness _or_ trust, and it had been a long time since Tony had taken either at surface value. _

_Gail didn't even know his last name, for crying out loud. For all he knew, Tony might be a criminal on the run. The guy was hopelessly naive, but, somehow, Tony couldn't find any scorn for him. Actually, far from it, he was feeling the need to warn Gail off. He clearly needed some advice about not talking to strangers—or offering them work, and pay in advance, for that matter._

_Gail just kept holding the bill out, like he was prepared to stand there all night until Tony made up his mind. _

"_Hey—you reeled in a tough customer. A little something for recruiting is in order, I figure."_

_Tony didn't _figure_ his work as being worth quite ten dollars—but he saw what Gail was trying to do, and let his pride accept the segue. "Thanks," he said, accepting, and trying to convey with his eyes a clear "I'll earn it, fair-'n-square." Stowing the money in his billfold—seeing it fit so snugly next the rest of his meager fortune—Tony had to hedge: "Maybe you could show me the ropes now, and I could __get that bite to eat later." _

"_No working on an empty stomach," Gail said, immovably. _

"_You drive a hard bargain, Gail." _

"_Stow that bag and go eat. Harley runs a nice diner—three doors down, left as you exit."_

"_On it…"_

_Tony broke off the familiar phrase, turning towards the door with an inward grimace. Nothing against Gail, but he was going to have to come up with something else to call him besides "boss."_

"You packing, or unpacking?"

To his eternal embarrassment, Tony started from his train of thought like a little girl caught with mommy's lipstick. Not that that was a scenario he'd experienced personally.

"B-boss," he stammered, then recovered, glancing at the clock on the nightstand. "On the hour, to the minute. I mean, I know you said you'd be back in an hour, but you're good. Really good… Boss."

"Hoping I'd be late?"

Tony followed Gibbs' gaze down to the motley assortment of supplies he had spread out on the bedspread. "Oh, uh, this? This is just…reminiscing." It sounded weak, especially considering what he was claiming to be reminiscing _on_. Other than the sweater, most of it was pretty sad looking, from the once-white socks, to the dented deodorant can, to the toothbrush with abused bristles (looking more like plaque's _friend_).

Averting his gaze, Tony began to systematically return the objects to his bag. "Wasn't going anyplace. I'll pinky-swear to it, if you want."

Gibbs seemed to accept that. Or else he didn't go for pinky-swears, like Abby did. And thinking of Abby…

"How's our forensic genius?"

"Set on prosecuting Carlin to the fullest extent of the law."

Tony placed the sweater inside the bag, on top. "Can't argue with that. How far do you think the law will let her get?"

"Not far enough."

Tony sat on the edge of the bed, trying to read Gibbs insoluble expression. "But…we're talking life in jail, right?" Gibbs nodded. "Oh. Good, 'cause I'd really hate to spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder. By the way, Boss… You hear McGee out, yet?"

Gibbs raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, c'mon, you know the Probie's dying to get it off his chest—a full report of exactly how they failed to find us." Tony hadn't intended it to sound that harsh. "What I mean is…"

"I _know_, DiNozzo," Gibbs said, wearily.

"Then give the kid a break, Boss. Ziva feels bad, too, about all the leads going dry—her description of the car turning up exactly _zilch_—but she's experienced enough to know that's just how things work out sometimes." Tony knew the Probie was nursing a whole lot more guilt. Even with Tony having lent his ear, and absolved him ("Those are the breaks, McBlame-Game. But you know what they say about spilt milk, and all that."), Tony knew McGee would keep playing that self-blame game until the Bossman gave him a chance to spill. Actually, by now it'd probably take a good head-slap to bring the kid around. Whatever it took.

"I'll handle McGee."

That was good enough for Tony. "About the team. I heard Vance was starting to put some small stuff on their plate, again, and since I'm feeling a whole lot better, I thought—" Gibbs' look clued Tony in quick to the fact that his idea was going exactly nowhere. He switched tracks smoothly, too: "—and I thought 'Gee, good for them—and good for you, DiNozzo. They get to slave away, while you sip lemonade.' That's what I thought, Boss. Word-for-word."

"Lemonade?"

"With a little bourbon, maybe."

"You had lunch yet?"

"The bourbon can wait." Actually, Tony's palate didn't feel up to much at all. The coughing was getting better, but the antibiotics weren't doing his stomach any favors, and everything tasted off, anyways. "Maybe I'll just do the dishes…or something," he suggested, because once Gibbs got it into his head it was nap time there was nothing for it—and Tony wasn't keen on finding out what the tenth level of stir-crazy felt like.

"No working on an empty stomach."

Sometimes there was just no way around the telepathic-Gibbs theory. It was either that, or Gibbs was just good at coincidence. Tony supposed if anyone _could_ be good at coincidence, it was Gibbs. Even if he didn't believe in it.

If Gibbs hadn't been reading his mind before, though, he was certainly trying to, now. _Good show, DiNozzo. Look startled a bit more—that's it. Keep broadcasting things like that, and pretty soon even the Probie will be reading you like a book._

"Something wrong, DiNozzo?"

Only an odd sense in Tony's gut that somehow Gibbs had never really lost track of him, even when Tony thought he'd managed to lose everyone, including himself.

Tony covered for his hesitation as best as he could, with a light, "Just one of those déjà vu moments." To Tony's relief, Gibbs let it slide. Tony's weird reaction, that was, not lunch.

"Ten minutes, DiNozzo."

"Until?"

"Pizza."

"Pizza…" Lunch suddenly sounded almost doable. "I hope you made plans for yourself, too, Boss."

There was definitely a twitch, if not a smile, at the corner of Gibbs' mouth as he walked out.

Tony contemplated the bag next to him on the bed for several minutes before picking it up and stowing it in the closet.

"On it, Boss."

* * *

**A/N: **Loving the reviews, as always! :D

Hope you guys enjoy your H/C & flashback sandwich. XD


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

* * *

"But how can you be _sure_ Tony won't hear us?" Abby whispered.

"White noise generator."

"Sneaky, Gibbs. I like it." Abby finished tying the string, with a red balloon attached to it, to the arm of the chair and stood back in satisfaction.

Sneaky, and a necessity of late, in order for Tony to get any sleep at all. There was something up with Tony, about his senses. He shied away from Gibbs' suggestions to tune hearing down at night, even though noises were clearly bothering him. Actually, Tony pretty much shied away from Gibbs' help, and from any conversation as to why he was suddenly so Guide-wary, altogether.

Other than that it—whatever was bothering Tony—had something to do with his time spent in Carlin's Sentinel Obedience School, Gibbs was having a hard time pinpointing exactly what the issue was, which made confronting Tony hard. Still too thin, and easily tired, Tony's recovery from the pneumonia was a slow process—and the not-sleeping part wasn't helping, either. Gibbs was no stranger to the kinds of dreams that could make you jerk awake, night after night, in a cold sweat, gasping for air, and Gibbs knew the element of unexpected pain, which Carlin had driven into Tony with the collar, wasn't the only phantom Tony was battling.

That was all reason enough to make Gibbs fume in silent, internalized restlessness. But leave it to DiNozzo to add to his own burden, by choosing to live by the "I'm fine" motto, these days. It didn't matter if he was caught red-handed, clearly not fine—any time, day or night, coughing, pale, or looking ready to be blown over by a gentle breeze, it didn't matter. Tony was F-I-N-E.

Otherwise, he was being a pretty quiet houseguest, which was definitely a sign something was up. Gibbs didn't like the way Tony's new knee-jerk reaction seemed to be to clam up. A quiet Tony was a hurting Tony.

You didn't need to be the senior agent on NCIS's lead team to figure out where the arrows were pointing. It was all just one more reason for Gibbs to wish he could have ten minutes alone with Carlin, if only to have the chance to take a few of the lies he'd been brainwashing Tony with, and shove the whole load of—

"Sorry we keep crashing your house like this, Boss," McGee's face came into focus in front of Gibbs, interrupting his moment of wishful thinking.

Abby's head popped up over McGee's shoulder, fielding the question confidently for Gibbs. "Gibbs doesn't mind. It's about cheering Tony up, and making sure he knows where he belongs." After McGee slipped off to help Ziva with the decorating, Abby came closer to whisper confidentially, "Think you left your party face locked up somewhere, though, Bossman."

"Party face?"

"_Well_…" Abby floundered, not at all awkwardly, at his lack of enthusiasm, "I'd settle for something other than your _interrogation_ face. C'mon, I know you've got something that'll work." She gave him a kiss on the cheek, and hurried off to conduct her orchestra of two, who were currently struggling in the creativity department.

Gibbs had to admit, the sight of a geek and an assassin arguing over the arrangement of multi-colored streamers _was_ something to crack a smile over.

Ducky came last, Abby ushering him in, taking his present to add to the pile in the living room.

"My, my…" Ducky commented approvingly, with a hint of teasing, as he observed the room with Gibbs from the sidelines. "Very festive, Jethro. Although I'm assuming the balloons weren't your idea."

"You know me too well, Duck."

"Anthony's upstairs, and sleeping, I hope?"

"Fought it."

"And lost. Good." Ducky shook his head. "That boy does know how to make a recovery difficult; it would be so much easier if he'd _let_ himself be sick, occasionally. The Director's made it very clear he considers Tony's condition to fall under the category of injury sustained in the line of duty, and there's no reason for Anthony to be pushing himself so much… I'm always at a loss as to what self-diagnosis he's operating under when he tries to bluff his way through an illness like this."

"Ignore it long enough and it might go away."

"Spoken like a man familiar with the theory."

Gibbs just nodded to the bag Ducky held. "House call?"

"Abby suggested I might take a listen to his lungs—after the party, of course. I wouldn't want to put a damper on things. Perhaps I'll just hide this somewhere…"

"Gibbs, Gibbs, we're ready." Abby tugged at his arm. "Go get the guest of honor—and no giving him hints about us being here."

Tony slept propped upright by two pillows to allow easier breathing, his head tilted back against the headboard of the bed, mouth slightly ajar. Each breath caught a little as he inhaled, and Gibbs frowned at how congested he still sounded. If Abby hadn't already asked Ducky for the house call, Gibbs would have. Tony claimed to be doing "better 'n better" every day, but just _how much_ better was hard to judge.

Gibbs reached down, turning off the white noise generator set up at the foot of the bed.

"DiNozzo." No reaction. Gibbs touched his arm, repeating his name more loudly. "_DiNozzo_."

Tony came to with a panicked intake of air, hand shooting out to grab the one Gibbs had touched him with.

"Time for dinner." Gibbs spoke calmly, as if Tony's reaction were perfectly routine. It _was_ becoming, if not exactly normal, certainly not unexpected. Gibbs had seen enough of the violent wake-up calls Carlin had given Tony to make a fair guess at what was racing through Tony's mind right then.

Tony returned to the present after a brief moment of fast and heavy breathing, comprehending Gibbs' presence, and what he'd just said, and swiftly letting go. "Don't tell me. Antibiotics for dessert?"

"You catch on fast."

"I smell popcorn," Tony observed, with faint wonder. "For dinner?"

Gibbs straightened, turned to go. "Come down before it gets cold."

DiNozzo wouldn't appreciate the lack of a warning, but given the choice between that and what he'd get from Abby if she found out Gibbs had "hinted," he decided the first would be easier to live with.

Tony came down the stairs, running a hand through his hair. He had a few steps left when the bright colors, and Abby's even brighter smile, stopped him dead. From the look of it, his sleep-blurred eyes thought they were looking at some sort of hallucination.

"Boss, there are balloons in your living room," he managed, "and lots of people."

Abby jumped up in a fair imitation of Tigger, even without a tail to bounce on. "Surprise!"

Tony smiled with all the pleasure of a man just promised a slow and lingering death. "Maybe I'll just go put on something else…" he said, looking down at the sweatpants and old t-shirt he was wearing.

Abby snagged his arm before he could escape. "No you don't, Mister. This isn't a fashion show. You're sick. This is supposed to be _comfortable_ and _relaxed_." She stopped Tony's hand, on its way to smooth out the hair he'd just sent into disarray, pieces of it sticking up every-which-way. "Leave it. It looks cute like that."

"Abby…" Tony was looking at Ziva, and Ducky, and McGee, as if they were the firing squad, occasionally sparing Gibbs a death glare.

"Oh, come on," Abby part implored, part demanded, "don't blame the Bossman—I had him under pain of death."

Tony gave Gibbs one more slightly modified death glare, allowing himself to be towed forward towards his doom. "Pain of death, huh?" He sat where Abby directed on the couch, looking around at the company, acknowledging each with a chagrined smile that was gradually losing its stiffness. "Ducky. Ziva. McGee. Um…so how'd Abby rope you into this one?"

"It was _my_ idea," Ziva said proudly.

"Yup, it was," Abby agreed, sitting down next to Tony.

"What…was?" Tony still looked like he expected to be ambushed—but he was trying to be polite about it. "Don't get me wrong, it's nice." His eyes followed a string, upwards, to its purple balloon. "But what, exactly, _is_ this? Other than a surprise."

"It's a welcome back/get-well-soon party," Abby said, dividing the two ideas with a slashing gesture. "Oh, and I guess you could say it's a celebration of Carlin being in jail, too. We'll have to do this again if he gets the death sentence."

"Abbs, I don't think—" Tony began, and then wisely switched to, "—that is, anything's possible."

Personally, Gibbs thought there would've been poetic justice in a sentence to execution by electric chair.

Tony still had more objections left to make. "You guys really shouldn't have…"

"Methinks the lad doth protest too much," Ducky observed sagely.

"Hey, I _do_ _not_ protest…too much…exactly. I—"

"Oh good," Abby beamed, settling the matter with a brief sideways hug. "Then you just sit there, and be the guest of honor."

Tony looked around at the circle of faces, again, smile warming by another subtle degree. "Sounds easy enough."

Gibbs left to get the popcorn out of the kitchen, and when he returned Ziva was trying to explain her original inspiration for the party, and receiving much outrage from Tony.

"A _baby shower_?"

"Well…perhaps more like a wedding shower," Ziva countered defensively.

"_Wedding_?"

Ziva made an exasperated gesture. "The tradition is to throw a party, for the purpose of giving the parents, or the couple, practical gifts to help them—_yes_?" She gave Tony a look of further exasperation. "Not that you are a mother-to-be, or about to be married…"

"Geez, Tony," Abby said, socking his shoulder gently, "appreciate the thought."

"Oh, I _do_. I'm just not so sure I appreciate the origins of that thought," Tony said, looking guardedly down his nose at Ziva.

Ziva narrowed her eyes, obviously resisting the urge to throw a pillow. "Shut up. You have not even opened your presents yet."

"Aha, your true inspiration—the _need_ to verbally abuse your sick colleague—comes out," Tony gave Ziva a knowing look, before blinking in realization, suddenly lighting up like a kid on Christmas morning. "Wait. Did you say presents?"

"Eat first." Gibbs filled a bowl out of the larger bowl of popcorn he'd set on the coffee table, placing it in Tony's hands.

"Boss, get a load of that pile of presents over there, it's—" Tony stopped himself mid-torrent, as he was so good at doing, looking from Gibbs—who'd strategically taken a seat next to him the couch—to Abby, on his other side, and watching him with clear expectation. He took handful of popcorn. "Mmm, butter: cholesterol and saturated fat at its best." He glanced at Ducky. "This comes doctor approved, right?"

Ducky was busy dishing himself up a bowlfull. "Corn, my boy, provides you with beta-cryptoxanthin, something recent findings suggest may be good for the lungs, and corn is additionally rich in folate."

"The natural form of folic acid—good for mothers-to-be," Abby supplied, munching happily.

"Oh. _Good_." Tony looked with cross-eyed scrutiny at the piece of popcorn, stalled half-way in its delivery to his mouth. He looked across it at Ziva, with a muttered "baby shower," before chewing on it loudly.

"And did you know," Ducky continued, "that _heating_ corn may increase its antioxidant potential by as much as forty-four percent?"

"The more we know, the more we love our 'junk food,'" Abby looked over at McGee, prodding, "right, McGee?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah."

Ducky was still going strong. "You see, the process of cooking actually liberates the antioxidants from the corn plant cell walls, while deactivating enzymes that would otherwise inhibit antioxidant activity…" He trailed off, seeming a bit at a loss at _not_ being interrupted.

"You should have your own show, Ducky. Like Bill Nye," Abby encouraged.

"It's all very fascinating, isn't it? Zeaxanthin, which gives corn its yellow color, is another carotenoid—like beta-cryptoxanthin—with antioxidant properties. It's often linked to lutein, since both are deposited in the macular region of the eye. There are new theories all the time on exactly what antioxidants may be able to do… Why, I once knew a young man who was such a strong believer in them, and their ability to prevent cancer, he would eat impressively large amounts of either spinach, kale, carrots, or tomatoes—in addition to citrus fruit—with every single meal. It was quite an obsession of his. Needless to say, he met with many complications in his dating life because of it, until he met a lovely woman who was a vegetarian, and a very keen entrepreneur in the area of SPIN-farming…"

They ate, and listened, for a good fifteen minutes. Gibbs couldn't begrudge Ducky the spotlight. There was no case pending—and this was exactly why Duck was so good at what he did. It sure beat TV any day of the week, in Gibbs' opinion.

When Ducky's story had wound to its conclusion—the lovely vegetarian, and the antioxidant-obsessed young man, happily married—Abby announced that it was time for presents, and selected one from the pile on the floor.

"Here. Start with this one."

"Abby…" McGee complained, squirming, making it obvious whose gift she'd picked first.

Tony definitely wasn't the wrapping paper saving sort. He tore into it with glee. "Woah. McGoo…" Tony only left McGee in suspense for a moment as he examined the contents of the box: a grey turtle-neck sweater and several polo shirts. "Some serious _taste_, here, from the Probie: this is a proud day for me, McMind-Reader."

McGee's gaze darted towards the fading red marks on Tony's neck. He shrugged, pleased and embarrassed, even at the back-handed compliment. "They just looked like things you might wear."

Abby kept things going (it was hard to tell if she, or Tony, were the more excited). "Okay, Ducky's next."

"I heard Carlin quite depleted what wardrobe you had brought with you when you left," Ducky explained, while Tony opened his present. "I thought this might be useful. What with the weather on a sharp decline, it appears we may be heading for a nasty winter. I do hope it's not too old-fashioned for you, Anthony."

Tony held up the coat: black, in a trench-coat style. "Are you kidding? It's great, Ducky. Really. Now maybe the Boss'll let me out to make a snowman—once we get some snow." He smiled at Gibbs, the obedient smile of a patient invalid who certainly knew his limitations, and added, "Of course, only once I'm feeling a _whole_ lot better than I do now."

"My present is somewhat related to Ducky's," Ziva said, as Abby handed Tony the present from her. "We brain-stormed together, and…" She looked uncharacteristically apprehensive, her eyes tracking Tony's swift progress with the wrapping paper. "If you do not like it, I will not be offended."

Tony pulled out a pair of leather gloves, sliding a hand into one with a grin. "You're trying to talk me out of _this_? Nice try. Perfect fit, too..."

"I measured your hand while you were asleep, once," Abby confessed freely.

"Is nothing sacred?"

"But there's _more_," Abby pressed.

Ziva's lips were set in a thin line, but she tilted her chin proudly, nonetheless, as Tony withdrew a scarf of a deep blue color, marginally too bright to be considered navy.

"She made it," Abby enthused. "Isn't it just the best?"

Judging by Ziva's brief wince, she'd been hoping the homemade bit might be kept a secret.

Tony examined it a little wide-eyed, rubbing the material between thumb and forefinger. "A genuine assassin-knitted scarf."

"Crocheted, actually," Ziva corrected, warily.

"Really? But knitting needles are so…dangerous-looking. Pointy. I woulda thought they'd be more your thing."

Ziva tilted her chin yet more. "I keep a knife for that. Besides, crocheting is more of a challenge."

"I helped her pick out the yarn." Abby reached out to touch the soft material. "It's all hypoallergenic 'n stuff, so it won't be itchy." She grinned. "So, when the Bossman lets you out to make that snowman, you can cover up your mouth good, and not get sick again."

Tony grinned back. "Ah, and Ziva can crochet the snowman a scarf, too, 'cause there's no way I'm sharing mine."

Ziva's wariness faded into a comfortable smile. "You have no idea how many times I had to start the thing over." She gestured to it, as if it were a living thing with a vendetta against her. "Always an extra stitch—or one too few. I am not making another scarf any time soon."

"_Unless_," Tony pointed out, "you need to be in a bad mood in a jiffy. I'm thinking artsy-craftsy could be a new Mossad tool for getting in the assassinating groove."

"Groove?"

"Never mind." Tony indicated the scarf. "It's nice, though."

"I'm going last—so Bossman's next." Abby curled her legs up under her, watching Gibbs in anticipation, as if they'd finally come to the feature presentation.

Gibbs noted the way Tony seemed suddenly unable to look in his direction, tapping into awkward uncertainty he hadn't shown over receiving any of the other offerings.

"Boss, you really shouldn't have. I mean, you're already letting me crash here, and…" Tony ducked his head a little, taking the gift when Gibbs kept holding it out. He traced a finger across the carved top of the small box, reverently. "Take time off the boat to make this?"

"Well, no, DiNozzo. I keep my chisels in my desk to use during work hours."

Tony took the verbal head-slap the way Gibbs had intended; the fleeting, sheepish smile confirmation he got the message, loud and clear. You could almost hear the wheels turning in the kid's head: Gibbs had made this, in his personal time—and no, he hadn't done it because someone was pointing a gun at his head, _making_ him take the time for it.

"Going to open it?" Gibbs asked, when Tony continued to examine it as if it were the Holy Grail.

"Open it? Oh." Tony colored faintly, lifting the lid. "You got it back," he said softly, rubbing the glass face of the watch with a thumb. "I never knew what time it was. What day it was. I wonder if Carlin realized—if he knew how much that…" Tony swallowed whatever he'd been about to say, looking up hastily as if he'd temporarily forgotten he had an audience. "Thanks, Boss."

"The first one he took from you wasn't with the rest of the evidence," Gibbs commented.

Tony's fingers wrapped possessively around the watch that Gibbs had originally given him to replace that first one. "I'd rather have this one."

"Mine, now." Abby deposited the last package into Tony's lap.

Tony didn't rip off the wrapping paper right away, cocking his head to one side to study it.

"_Tony_, open it," Abby urged impatiently.

"But I haven't read this 'Dilbert,' yet…" Tony countered, holding the comics-wrapped present up to read, chuckling. "Ha—'My insolence safety zone has increased.' This is a man after my own heart."

"Want some help with that?"

Tony pulled it out of Abby's reach. "I got it. Thanks."

Of course, Abby still snatched the slippers from Tony before he'd hardly gotten a look at them, placing them on his feet with alacrity. "There, now we're all set."

Tony examined a spontaneously slipper-clad foot. "For what?"

"For the second part of my present. Here—I kinda got them last-minute and didn't have time to wrap them."

"'Mad Libs: Worst Case Scenario,'" Tony read aloud, already grinning his juvenile best. "Wow. I didn't even know the two existed in combination. Aho—_and_ 'Mad Libs: SpongeBob SquarePants.' Ha! You rock, Abbs."

Gibbs was already collecting the dishes as Ziva asked, "What is a…square-pantsed sponge? And why _Bob_?" and smiled from the kitchen as he listened to the resulting buzz of too many people answering at once.

* * *

_To Be Continued_

A/N: Hope I didn't kill anyone with the mega-dose of schmoopy team comradery! Your reviews make me all warm and happy inside. :D


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

* * *

Tony's ears rang, and when the light hit his eyes he couldn't help but cry out in pain, turning his head aside, seeking out darkness, safety, silence. Then something blocked the light out, and he relaxed, as much as his shivering body would allow. He couldn't stop shaking.

Adrenaline sure packed a nice punch, but when it left you the fun was all over, and Tony hated the feeling: as if you'd used up all your energy in one euphoric rush, and were now left muscle-less and panting.

The rush hadn't really even been all that euphoric, either. Stupid dreams. He wished they were a tangible thing he could kick, or glare at, or stab multiple times with a knife. He supposed Carlin would've sufficed, but that option wasn't looking much more hopeful.

This hadn't been one of those drowning dreams. Those good ol' days—_nights_—were starting to sound better and better. In those dreams, Tony was the only one at risk. The same basic dream seemed to be evolving a little each time he had it. At first, it was just him, stuck in some dark hole, thanks to Carlin, and (again, thanks to Carlin) he had the collar on once more. Then, thanks to some unseen person (probably Carlin) the collar would go off on one of its tizzy fits. It was never anything Tony said or did; it just kept on shocking him, gradually growing in intensity. Finally, Tony would escape.

At least, at first it was escape. Usually, as he yanked the last dial down to numbing zero, he'd wake himself up. His senses were always wacky for an hour or so afterward, and he'd lie still, eyes tightly closed, making sure his vision was "on" before opening his eyes, because he knew he wouldn't be thinking rationally if he opened them and found himself blind. When he did look at last, he'd seek out the outline of the window, stumble out of bed towards it, and stare out for a long time, reassuring his vision with the sight of the street lamps.

Eventually—as long as sight was working—his other senses seemed to balance themselves out. Touch usually came last, with the shakes, and the feel of sweat making his shirt stick to his back, along with the familiar tightness in his chest, always begging to have out in the form of coughing. Coughing, of course, wasn't an option, with Gibbs nearby to hear.

The evolution Tony's dream had taken tonight made him want to keep his eyes shut for a long, long time, and wait until… Until who-knew-what. Tony wanted to crawl out of his skin, thinking about that person in the dream. _Himself_.

Tony had warned Carlin from the start that he'd never win, that Carlin would never get Tony to the place where he'd willingly jump to do Carlin's will. Well, Tony had been right—at least, according to how his dream had worked out.

Tony had been a machine: some hollow-eyed, uncaring robot, hardened beyond caring who he hurt. He'd used his abilities to do just the kind of things Carlin had predicted an untrained Sentinel might do. He'd killed. He'd tuned out emotion, and he'd _murdered _in cold blood, and only after he'd done unspeakable things had he wrestled his senses back under, shutting them all down before he could do more damage. In his self-made cavern of sightless, numb unfeeling he'd wished Carlin _would_ find him, and do whatever it took to stop him, even if that meant—

"Tony?"

With the familiar tingle of nerve-ends waking up, Tony realized there was a hand on his shoulder. Some part of him knew it was Gibbs, that everything he was feeling was just the remnants of a dream, and that he was going to regret being unable to suck it up with Gibbs there, a witness to his breakdown. None of which changed the fact that he couldn't suck it up right then. _Probably because you're having a _break-down_… _That would be his sense of wit coming on line.

"You with me?" Gibbs was wanting to know.

"Don' lemme do it," Tony found himself croaking in response, with something very much like a sob. His voice, and Gibbs', both had a surreal, far-off quality to them; hearing wasn't quite back on track yet, apparently.

"Do what?"

Now that he'd started down this road, Tony found he didn't want to answer, but the hand tightened on his shoulder, and it seemed to pry it out of him, raggedly: "_Kill_. Hurt people."

He heard Gibbs sigh—not in frustration, or anger, or even weariness. Well, maybe some weariness, but mostly just…as if he'd _known_ what Tony was going to say. It was kind of reassuring to hear, actually, to think that Gibbs wasn't surprised. And if Gibbs knew, and wasn't acting alarmed…

But, of course, how could Gibbs really know? He hadn't seen what Tony had done. Sure, it was just a dream, but the potential for all that to happen, because of him, was real.

"No one could stop me, and it was all so meaningless, but I didn't care. Using my abilities was as easy as breathing, and I just kept _killing_…"

"It was a dream, Tony."

Tony turned his face enough away from the pillow to get a view of Gibbs' face, but found it hard to see his expression, silhouetted as he was by the light coming from the hall through the open door. "But what if it could happen?"

"It won't."

"But how can you be so sure?"

"Easily."

Tony was stalled, but only temporarily, by how _easily_ Gibbs said "easily." He swallowed hard. "But what if Carlin was right, and Sentinels..." It was cowardly to hide behind his the word "Sentinels," avoiding saying what he really meant, which was, bluntly: "What if I really am a monster?"

He didn't think he'd actually said it out loud. Gibbs still seemed to have heard him.

"The fact that you have more _ability _now doesn't make you any more likely to do those things than you were before. That was not _you_."

Tony could hear the words _"You will not die," _like an echo in Gibbs' statement, , the same unwavering certainty was here, as it had been then—in Gibbs' mind.

"Not now," he answered softly. "But it could be."

He could almost hear Gibbs clench his jaw. "Not going to happen."

Tony sat up too quickly, fought down dizziness, and spat angrily, "But what if it _does_? What if I _do_…" _Finish it, DiNozzo. _"What if I do become a monster? What _then_, Boss?" He'd been aiming to make it sound like a challenge, a dare. What he got was a lost-sounding whisper.

"Then I'll stop you."

"Promise?"

"_DiNozzo_…"

"I need to know, Boss."

"If I'd shoot you?"

Sometimes it made Tony cringe when Gibbs was…well, _point-blank_. It was exactly what Tony wanted to hear, though, and he responded with some relief, "Yeah."

"Not unless I was out of other options."

"_Boss_…"

It looked like it was going to be a head-slap, but instead Gibbs cupped the side of Tony's face with a hand, giving it a restrained smack, and when he spoke he was _definitely_ exasperated.

"DiNozzo, a _bullet_ isn't the only way to stop someone."

Tony thought about that. "You saying you'd head-slap me with a shovel, Boss?"

"To stop you from going off on a homicidal rampage? In heartbeat, DiNozzo."

Tony nodded. "It wouldn't have to be a shovel, you know. You could use anything that's handy, maybe a lamp, or a frying-pan, or…"

"Or, I could order you to _snap out of it, _and fall in line."

"There is that." Tony nodded with further approval. "I can tell you've put a lot of thought into this, Boss. We should have these talks more often."

"Ya think?"

Tony paused. "But what if there wasn't a shovel, _or_ a lamp, _or_ a frying-pan…?"

"DiNozzo."

"Right. You're a think-outside-the-box kinda guy." Tony smiled weakly. "Sorry for waking you up."

Gibbs sighed heavily, shaking his head, and giving the side of Tony's face another light smack. "Come on."

"I'm alright, now." Tony intentionally didn't say "fine," because Gibbs had been getting strangely prickly when he used that particular word. He frowned his disapproval at Gibbs. "Besides, Boss, you're still not catching on to this whole help-the-insomniac thing. The heart-to-heart was really good, but you're not supposed tell someone who's just had a nightmare that they should try and get some more sleep—remember?"

"You _want_ to try it this time?"

"No. Not really." Tony smiled wincingly. "Definitely not."

Gibbs made a well-there-you-go gesture, and gripped Tony under the arm to get him up.

"To tell you the truth, I've never got much practice at late-night conversation, myself," Tony continued, knowing he was babbling, but needing to babble, because (perhaps futilely) it had always been one of his favorite coping mechanisms. Maybe it was a sort of an "embarrass yourself _one_ way, so you wouldn't be embarrassed worse in _another_ way," kind of thing. Pick your poison, as it were. Nonetheless, while he babbled, Gibbs steered him down the hall and towards the stairs. "You see, my father never really appreciated the potential for parent-son bonding over things like nightmares in the middle of the night, and since my mother was always out like a light after ten-thirty, I got pretty good at using these things as an opportunity for a little self-bonding. Nothing like Magnum P.I. at midnight…" Gibbs stopped long enough to give Tony one of those inscrutable looks that always made Tony take a verbal step back. "Of course, there are plenty other things comparable to Magnum P.I., when you don't happen to have a TV. Like a good book. You have any of the Hardy Boys series handy? Encyclopedia Brown? _Nancy Drew_?"

Tony began to feel cornered; Gibbs was really going to…_what_? Make him hot cocoa? Sometimes it was hard to reconcile the dad Tony knew Gibbs had once been with the Gibbs (you know what the second "B" stands for) that Tony knew. Not that it was hard to picture Gibbs being good with kids. Gibbs was good with kids. And animals. And hysterical women. Thing was, Tony wasn't any of the above. He was Gibbs' all-grown-up senior field agent. His _right-hand man_. Not some kid, to have his hand _held_.

"Come on, gimme something to work with, here," Tony whined as he took the first step, "I promise I won't hurt your boat, or jump on the couch, or anything, if left to my own devices. I won't even—"

Tony decided right then that he really needed to train his cough better: the fit caught him halfway down the stairs, doubling him over, and nearly sending him tumbling to the landing, but for Gibbs' hand on his elbow.

He wasn't really sure how he made it to the living room, what with his vision doing the black-spot thing, and lack of air making coordinated walking a challenge. Next he knew, though, he was sitting on the couch with a blanket around his shoulders—and Gibbs was nowhere to be seen.

Well, good. He'd gotten his way then. _Good_.

Tony leaned his head back to ceiling-gaze, since there weren't any stars handy. It was then he realized there were noises coming from the kitchen. He tried to feel properly annoyed that Gibbs hadn't, in fact, given him his way, but wasn't entirely successful. Not that he was relieved, exactly, just surprisingly not-awkward all of the sudden. If Gibbs really _wanted_ to have his sleep interrupted…

"Here."

Tony looked askance at the mug that had materialized in front of him. "Is that cocoa, Boss?"

"No, it just looks like cocoa."

Tony took it, sipping tentatively. "Tastes like it, too. You make good fake cocoa."

He watched with interest as Gibbs turned to the fireplace, opening the doors and squatting down to lay a fire. Two logs were placed parallel to each other, then crumpled newspaper put in the gap between and, finally, a few thinner logs were laid on top. The newspaper flared instantly with the touch of a match, burning blindingly bright for a moment before settling to a flicker, smoking, and finally beginning to catch on the logs above. Even from where he was, Tony could feel the heat of it on the side of his face.

"Scratch what I said, earlier. You've got this insomniac-care routine down, Boss. Practice much?" Too late, Tony reconsidered his words. Probably, that practice had involved getting up with Kelly.

Gibbs still had his back to Tony. He sounded only matter-of-fact. "Some things, you make time for. Whenever."

"Funny, I think my father would've agreed with you there, actually. Only, this time of night, he was generally busy making time for _sleep_, and well…" Tony took another sip. It really was good cocoa—had to be made with milk. "He was pretty much a stickler for schedules. Never appreciated it when I tried to pull those un-scheduled stunts on him, but for the life of me I couldn't figure out how to tell those bad dreams to come again some other night. I'm inconvenient, that way." That reminded Tony of something. "It's a school night," he said, cringingly. "Boss, you're going to be completely zonked tomorrow, when you start back to work." In retrospect, "zonked" didn't seem very Gibbs-descriptive.

"Who said I'm starting back?"

"I would think Vance would be saying so, by now."

"Nope."

"Nope?"

"DiNozzo," Gibbs rose, turned, once more too hidden in shadows, what with the firelight at his back, for Tony to read his expression. "_Some things_, you _make_ time for."

"You just said that, Boss."

"Figure it out yet?"

"Um… Thing is," Tony hedged, "I'd really rather you didn't lose your job over this."

"Extenuating circumstances."

"Huh?"

"I'm your Guide, DiNozzo. You've been through hell. Vance made an exception."

"Huh. Guess Vance is a think-outside-the-box kinda guy, too. He's not so bad, for a director. But all…_this_," –being kidnapped, being sick, being pathetic—"has already taken up a lota time. And you're really off work, again, just like that?"

"Part-time."

Tony cringed again. "Tied-to-the-desk, paperwork stuff. Ouch. Why would you—"

"—You want me to say it third time?" Gibbs threatened.

"Not me, Boss. Some things, you make time for. A new rule?"

"Common sense," Gibbs spoke over his shoulder, as he returned to the kitchen.

While it made sense, as far as Tony was concerned, he was pretty sure it wasn't all that _common_.

It didn't smell like hot cocoa, what Gibbs had in his mug when he returned, and Tony gave the inequity of the situation a narrow-eyed look, complaining, "You let me have coffee last time."

Actually, Tony didn't mind the inequity all that much. The hot cocoa was sweet, warm, and sat easily in his stomach. In any case, he generally preferred his coffee with enough sugar and cream in it that it might as well have been hot cocoa—but, still, there was the principle of the matter.

"Last time, you weren't taking these," Gibbs said, handing Tony a familiar-looking pill.

"Guess it is almost morning; might as well get a head-start." Tony made a toasting motion with the pill. "Bon appetit."

It wasn't as bad as Tony might've imagined, sitting in companionable silence. With a fire on the hearth, it was actually rather quaint, apart from his own sporadic coughing, which lessened the idyllic ambiance.

"Ducky said my lungs didn't sound worse," Tony commented conversationally, and somewhat defensively, after one such round of ugly hacking.

"He didn't say they sounded better."

"Hey, credit for baby steps. Or, at least, for not taking a step backwards." Ducky had taken a listen to his lungs less than a week ago, after all. How much progress did they expect him to be making between these paranoid check-ups?

Gibbs gave him a lenient glance over the rim of his mug, as he drank.

"Right." Tony huffed a mini-cough. "I'll start cracking down harder on this thing." Another mini-cough. "Pronto. No more fooling around."

"You could start by eating more."

Easy for Gibbs to say. Food had _taste_ for him.

Under Gibbs' watchful gaze, Tony was sidetracked, momentarily, by the irony of where he'd been a week ago, and where he was now. Carlin's Sentinel-raising methods didn't hold a candle to Gibbs'. Somehow, though, Tony had to think that sitting your Sentinel down by a roaring fire and feeding him hot cocoa came dangerously close to falling on the pampering end of the spectrum. There had to be something in Gibbs' "Guidebook" that warned against too much of a good thing spoiling your Sentinel rotten. But, if there was, Gibbs wasn't paying it much attention. Trust Gibbs to write his own rulebook. The Gibbsbook—now there was a book Tony would've liked to get his hands on. Probably had a nice list of all The Rules, for easy reference.

The thought of Gibbs, versus Carlin, made Tony wonder about other things.

"You ever have a dog when you were a kid?"

Gibbs nodded, true-to-form not seeming surprised by the random nature of the question.

"Bet you fed and watered it, and took it for walks, and played fetch with it, too," Tony surmised, without any real point, other than satisfaction of holding up the shining example of his Guide, next to Carlin's less-than-stellar resume. Tony pictured Gibbs as the golden retriever, or lab, sort. But retriever, lab, or beagle, Tony was pretty sure it'd been one lucky dog.

Tony noticed something had intensified Gibbs' expression.

"You heard that conversation, about the beagle under the Christmas tree, huh? Makes you feel sorry for his pets, doesn't it."

"For more than his _pets_," Gibbs muttered darkly.

"Not everyone's as well-adjusted as you, Gibbs. He probably didn't get enough hugs as a child. You know what therapists tell us…" Tony decided Gibbs probably didn't care what the therapists had to tell them. Tony decided he didn't really care, either. "You know, Carlin wasn't wrong about everything."

"Do tell."

It was funny how Gibbs could take a polite phrase and turn it on its head, transforming what would have been, from anyone else, an inquiry, and making it into a hostile growl. But Tony was his senior field agent. You didn't become Gibbs' senior field agent if you were afraid of his growl, and Tony was used to sticking up for his own theories against a multitude of coworkers.

Even so, looking at Gibbs, Tony kinda wished he hadn't broached the subject. However, with the idea broached, Tony knew better than to try to back down. Gibbs was the one who'd wanted to stay up with Tony, and listen to him wax maudlin. Well…maybe the maudlin part Gibbs hadn't been expecting. But he should've known better. Sleep-deprivation and pain-killers were either one of them pretty effective when it came to tearing down Tony's inhibitions.

"Don't get me wrong, Boss. I'm glad you don't subscribe to the kenneling of Sentinels, or the remote-controlled thing. It would be really hard to explain the collar in public, and, besides, it would look just plain awkward with a suit. Unless you had something more fashionable in mind, than the model Carlin used—something sleeker, maybe?"

Gibbs didn't crack a smile. Tough audience.

Tony stared into the depths of his mug and found the dregs of his cocoa much easier to face off with. "So, no shock collar is great by me. But some control is a good thing, right? Control, apart from a last resort shovel-to-the-head, too, because threat of a homicidal rampage aside, I'm just not…predictable."

"You really think you were predictable _before_, DiNozzo?" Gibbs queried with the faintest of smiles.

"Well, no. Well…yes, to _some_ people." Tony grinned ruefully. "But that was different. Half the time _I_ don't know what to expect of myself anymore, with these freakin' _dials_ in my head going haywire." He made the universally understood sign for "crazy" with a circular finger motion pointing to his own head.

"That what happened tonight?"

"What?"

Tony had distorted memories of the time in between waking in sleeping. Before he'd gotten his hearing back, he remembered knowing he was making noise—had known his vocal cords working, involuntarily, even when he'd willed them not to. Now he had a terrible feeling that animal-like keening of fear and grief that he'd heard, while in that in-between state, had been _himself_. And he'd woken Gibbs with that. _God, please kill me now. _

"You couldn't hear me," Gibbs said, with a deceptive edge of calm rationality in his tone. Tony had heard it before, usually when Gibbs knew something incriminating about someone, for a fact, and was just waiting for the poor sucker in trouble to figure out that he was in trouble.

"I can be really out of it sometimes when I'm waking up, Boss. You know that."

"You didn't hear me," Gibbs repeated. Judging by the look he was giving Tony—yeah, Tony had definitely been making his distress evident. "I tried shaking you, too."

"Really, _really_ out of it…"

"You weren't _out of it_, DiNozzo. You didn't feel it."

Tony studied the dregs in his mug with renewed interest.

"Carlin thought he'd lost you that time," Gibbs said, voice low. "I did too."

Tony remembered that first time he'd done the backwards zone-out—really zoned _out_, i.e. shut everything down, instead of focusing in on one sense to the exclusion of all else—and he shuddered. It hadn't been comfortable then, any more than it was now. Somehow, though, it had become his reaction to pain, overnight. Maybe a small part of him was still trying to shed his Sentinel abilities altogether. It was an idea so pathetically futile Tony might've found it funny, except it was too painful just then.

There was no ditching this. Tony thought he'd come to terms with that, but apparently his subconscious begged to differ. He didn't want to be that ticking bomb Carlin talked about. He didn't want to hurt anyone. In his dream, he'd been so on top of his game: he'd grabbed every opportunity to utilize his senses to their full capacity, anticipating obstacles, _taking out_ obstacles… If Gibbs could've seen himself doing those things, Tony was pretty sure he'd be as scared of himself as Tony was. Only, of course, Gibbs would never lose it like that.

Tony wasn't sure what Gibbs was waiting for him to say, now. He was sorry Gibbs had seen him like that? He was sorry Gibbs _cared_?

"I didn't know you were watching," Tony finally replied, numbly, sensing from Gibbs' immediate growl of frustration that it _wasn't_ the apology he'd been looking for. "Look…Boss, I just can't trust them—these _abilities_. You've gotta understand that. So I'm learning how turn them off, at least temporarily, and maybe there have been a few bumps along the way." Tony shrugged. "I would think you'd be relieved if I could learn to control them well enough to turn them off for good. Maybe I'm finding a way where Sandburg and Ellison couldn't."

"A _few bumps_ along the way?" Gibbs was rarely incredulous—mildly surprised, on rare occasions, but not incredulous. Right then he was incredulous.

Admittedly, Tony had been grasping at straws, there. Still, why not? "I'm not talking about keeping everything at zero. But if I could learn to keep them at normal levels, permanently…"

"Yeah, 'permanently.' Until someone fires a gun off next to your ear, and you lose focus."

"What do you want me to say?" Tony's fingers tightened around mug. "That I trust these abilities to not go wacko on me, just because I trust _them_? 'Cause I don't."

"You could trust me."

Tony's anger ran into the solidity of Gibbs' non-combative suggestion, as if it were brick wall. "I know you've got my six," he replied, belatedly.

"Do you?"

"Yeah, Boss."

"I'm not just your boss anymore, DiNozzo."

"This sounds dangerously like a proposal," Tony joked weakly. He sobered under Gibbs' quelling look. "I know, Boss…Guide. It's just, I've wondered, you know…" When Gibbs didn't jump in and answer, Tony realized he was going to have to complete his sentence. "You know, if a Sentinel and Guide, who originally thought they were supposed to be Sentinel and Guide, eventually realized they _weren't_ meant to be Sentinel and Guide, and if they ever…" he made a face, "broke off the engagement—contract. Whatever you want to call it."

"The thought never crossed my mind." Gibbs tilted his head to one side. The embers of the dying fire only illuminated half his face, but it was enough to show the ironic twist of his lips. "Should I take that as a hint?"

That question had sure back-fired. It was really too late—or early—for conversations like this. Gibbs was always on top of his game, and Tony was currently definitely not on top of his. "I didn't mean—I mean, not like that. I didn't…" He wasn't making sense. Tony swallowed, and settled for an articulate: "No." There was no time like the present to dare to go where no man had gone before. "You don't talk much, Boss." Okay, so maybe he could've phrased that better. He could've phrased a lot of things better tonight; he pressed on, daunted, but too stupid to let that stop him. "You don't talk much," he repeated, with a more flippant edge, "so I wasn't sure, and I guess I just want you to know that I know that…well, things can change."

"Things?"

Tony scowled. Gibbs was refusing to _get_ it, forcing Tony to say exactly what he meant. Fine, he'd spell _things_ out for him. "Things. Relationships." Yeah, coulda phrased _that_ better, too. "Work-based…relationships. As in, relationships that work…around work."

Gibbs raised an eyebrow.

"What, it _works_ doesn't it?" Tony laughed with frazzled mirth.

"Does this look like the office to you?"

"That's a trick question about your taste in décor, isn't it? I'm too tired for trick questions."

"Are you hearing a _word_ I say, DiNozzo? I've got you here, where I can keep an eye on you, and make sure you take those pills, because it would be more than a _bother_ to have to replace you."

When Gibbs spoke…he _spoke_.

Tony felt his face glow with more than the heat coming from the fireplace. "Lots of paperwork, huh?" Before Gibbs could glare at him, he hasted to add, "I hear you, Boss. DiNozzos don't replace easy."

"Relationships don't always change."

Tony didn't mind admitting that he was in awe of how Gibbs could say those kinds of things, without wavering. Tony wavered just trying to face up to that statement. At least he could agree—to a degree. "Not always."

"Not all fathers want different sons, either."

For being down to a few smoldering embers, they sure kept the room hot. Tony stared hard at them as they glowed, and ebbed. "Who are we talking about…exactly?"

"Do you really need me to spell this out for you, DiNozzo?"

To Tony's surprise, the offer sounded genuine—exasperated, sure, but not necessarily unwilling to oblige if he Tony said _yes_. But as tempting as it was, Tony knew he didn't need it spelled out. Knowing Gibbs would've done it if he'd asked was enough.

"No thanks. I gotcha, Boss."

Gibbs nodded, satisfied, drinking the last of his coffee, and sitting back. He never asked Tony if he was ready to try going to sleep again. They just sat, the only sounds between them the popping and sizzling noises coming from the petering remains of the fire, a clock ticking, and a dog barking from somewhere down the street.

Somewhere between darkness and dawn Tony found himself beginning to drift off, and as his fingers loosened on the handle of his mug—faint worries stirring, warning him back to waking to stop it from falling—another hand took the cup from him.

"_Sleep_."

And he obeyed without a second thought.

* * *

_To be Continued_

A/N: Another chapter of pure schmoopy, H/C. And - wait! - there's more. XD So I hope you're not tired of it yet and continue to enjoy the rather lengthy wrap-up. I know I'm enjoying all your lovely reviews! Thank you!


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

* * *

"McGoo, did you miss me?"

Ziva saw the debate on McGee's face, saw which side won, and knew the answer that was coming.

"Yeah…amazingly enough, I really did, Tony."

Tony turned towards Ziva, and Ziva got the distinct feeling that, despite his expectant expression, what he was really _expecting_ some sort blow to his ego.

Ziva appraised him for a long moment. He was wearing the turtle-neck McGee had given him, the coat from Ducky, as well as the scarf Ziva had made for him, and a good guess was that he was wearing the watch from Gibbs, too.

Tony followed her gaze. "Oh. Yeah. I'm kinda…bundled to the max. Who knew the Boss was such a worry-wart that way? I would've worn the slippers Abby got me, but…" he shrugged, "Guess I'll save that for Casual Friday. I'll bring the Mad Libs, too."

There were days when a blow to his ego was exactly what Tony needed. Today, however, Ziva smiled, keeping him in suspense for only a few seconds longer, before saying, "It _is_ good to have you back, Tony. We did miss you."

A classic DiNozzo I-_knew_-it grin split Tony's face, as he settled in to his desk. More than that, however, he didn't seem to feel the need push his luck by trying to get them to admit to anything more. He seemed content with that—almost _shy_ to hear it, the way he averted further eye-contact by ducking his head to pour over the accumulation of papers on his desk.

It was not right. Ziva exchanged a glance with McGee; he found it strange, as well.

Gibbs entered a few minutes later, into an unusual atmosphere where all was quiet study. He gave his team an once-over before announcing, "We've got a kidnapping—medical personnel off the U.S.S. Sentinel." Tony's head came up in surprise, and Gibbs spared him a wry glance. "Medical Officer James Savoy was on his first deployment. It's confirmed he made it off the ship when the Sentinel pulled into port two days ago. No one's seen or heard from him since then. His mother visited his apartment and found signs of a struggle. DiNozzo—"

"—The life story of one James Savoy. Complete biography on your desk when you get back, Boss."

"McGee, you're with me, interviewing the parents. Ziva—potential enemies, new or old."

Ziva nodded, watching enviously as McGee grabbed his gear and followed Gibbs into the elevator. "It is good to have an active case again."

Tony paused in his furious typing to cough, ending the short bout by clearing his throat. He felt Ziva watching him. "What? That's nothing."

"Here." Ziva pulled open her drawer, tossing him a bag of cough drops. "You sound a little hoarse."

Tony examined the package. "The honey-filled kind. My favorite."

No need for Tony to know that they hadn't just been lying around at the bottom of her drawer, or that the specific brand had, in fact, come Abby-recommended as the kind Tony liked.

Tony unwrapped one, studying the package. "Huh. This is the kind Abby got me when I came back after I had the plague." He looked over the top of the package at Ziva.

Ziva shrugged, innocently resuming typing. "I was not here, then. Coincidence."

"We're on Gibbs' team. We don't believe in _coincidence_."

"Suit yourself." Ziva typed for another minute under the weight of his scrutiny, before decided it didn't matter. "Very well. I asked Abby."

"About…cough drops?" Tony asked in bemusement.

"The scarf is not _that_ good. Consider it an addition to my gift."

"The scarf _is too_ good."

Ziva looked up. Tony looked embarrassed.

"Well," Tony struggled, "it's soft. And not too crooked."

"Thank you." Ziva accepted the compliment. After all, it _was_ a little narrower on the end where she'd finished, from having dropped a stitch two-thirds of the way through.

"Yeah… Welcome."

It was amusing, this new polite and more easily flustered version of Tony. But it was also strange. _Strained_. Not Tony.

When Gibbs and McGee returned, over an hour later, Ziva welcomed the break in the monotony. Tony hadn't said a word since their opening conversation, and hadn't stopped typing other than to place a few calls, or to jot down notes.

Tony made his report without a single aberration from the pertinent facts. And he'd found a lot of facts about Savoy, going back to his childhood, including a list of all the places he'd lived (five, in all, including D.C.). He had a record of almost suspiciously good grades that lasted all the way through high school, but a matching reputation for strict self-discipline showing through in teachers' reports, as well as from his employers (he'd worked plenty of odd job through his teens, mowing lawns, raking yards, and cleaning windows, among other things).

In talking with the parents Gibbs and McGee had found them predictably biased ("James is such a _good_ boy…"), but as far DiNozzo's research went, as well as Ziva's, their information bore them out. What the evidence collected from the apartment would tell them, Abby's tests had yet to reveal.

"He does not seem to have a _single_ flaw in his character, as far as his friends and relatives are concerned," Ziva exclaimed in frustration. "He has glowing reports from the Naval Hospital he interned at. No one has a _clue_ why anyone would wish him harm."

"Maybe he's a little too flawless," McGee hazarded.

"I think you're on to something, there, Probie," Tony agreed. "No one likes a goody-two-shoes."

"Still, he does not seem to have any enemies from his past that I can find." Ziva shook her head. "It would seem more likely he made some fast enemies on his first deployment. I am still trying to contact more of his shipmates, but there was one—an Ensign Alice Fellows, who served under him as nurse—reported to have had several small disagreements with Savoy, on a professional level."

"Define '_disagreement_,'" Gibbs demanded.

"Apparently, she thought he was a bit _too_ by-the-book—unable to make exceptions in any instance. She challenged his authority publicly on one occasion, and a note was made in her file. However, it would appear this is _not_ Fellows' first reprimand. Several other notes to her file would indicate a pattern of taking issue with authority. She owns a house a few minutes outside of D.C."

Gibbs nodded. "Take McGee, see what she has to say."

"Boss, McGee just got back, I could—" Tony began, before finishing meekly, "I could…keep on writing that biography."

Ziva watched Tony out of the corner of her eye as she and McGee headed for the elevator. Tony was already back to typing, looking focused.

She heard Gibbs say, "Lunch, DiNozzo."

"No thanks, Boss," Tony dismissed the idea.

"Wasn't a question."

"I've got to try calling this guy again. He was neighbors with Savoy through the end of high school, and it sounds like they were pretty tight, staying in contact and everything, and—"

"—Lunch."

"Right."

The elevator opened, and Ziva stepped inside with McGee.

"How long do you suppose Tony'll stay chained to his desk?" McGee asked, after they'd descended several levels in silence.

"As long as Gibbs says so."

Ziva sighed as she said it—but she knew it was for the best. Gibbs knew where Tony was at better than either of them. This was about more than whether or not Tony was physically fit to be out in the field again. There were factors neither she nor McGee could accurately assess.

She only hoped Tony would eventually return to being himself.

* * *

"Tony!"

Tony had been anticipating the full-throttle hug. Thankfully, of late Abby had taken to using a modified full-throttle hug, which didn't involve squeezing all the air from his body. She let his shoulders take the pressure, instead.

"Thanks…Abbs." Tony was hard put not to drop the Caff-Pow as he accepted the hug. "You do know I won't feel ignored if you don't…ya know…"

"If I don't, ya know, what?"

"Do the whole dropping-everything-to-greet me thing. Not that I don't appreciate the extra attention, but you can't be surprised to see me, with Gibbs sending me down here every day. Besides, it's not like I'm even leaving the building the rest of the time, these days."

"So I can't be glad to see you, if I'm not surprised to see you?" Abby puzzled over his reasoning.

"I didn't say…that." Tony knew he was traversing dangerous, mine-riddled ground, here. Risking offending Abby was in no case a good idea and, really, what point had he been trying to make, anyway? "Never mind. Here." He held out the Caff-Pow like an olive branch.

Although it obviously took all her self-control to resist snatching it up immediately, resist the pull Abby did.

Tony studied his still-extended olive branch, confused. "Something wrong with it?"

"Oh, no. Nothing's wrong with it." Her eyes were glued to the promise of caffeine, held out to her. "But you have to promise to make a swap."

"A swap?"

"Yup. It's easy. You just have to let me give you something in exchange. But, you have to promise you won't take it just to humor me, and then throw it away, or just turn around and forget it somewhere 'accidentally'…"

"Abby, I think you'd better tell me what you're talking about, before I make any promises."

"Right—right." Abby tore her gaze away from the Caff-Pow, and turned briefly to the freezer, pulling out her lunchbox and presenting Tony with a sandwich. "It's for eating," she explained patiently to his nonplussed expression.

"I would've gotten that, in a minute. But, while you're helping me with this investigation, Miss Sciuto, why don't you shed a little illumination on why you're trying to give me _your_ lunch?"

"I'm not. It's not. My lunch, that is. It's yours. Good ol' PB and J," she illuminated further, helpfully.

"PB and J?" Tony's arm was getting tired from holding out the Caff-Pow.

"Good source of protein. C'mon, take it. I made two of 'em: one for me, and one for you."

It was either obey the woman, or stand there forever, the two of them like strangely posed statues, extending their respective food and beverage offerings.

Tony reached out to take the sandwich—Abby pulled it just out of reach.

"Ab-by."

"Only take it if you're going to be a man of your word."

"I'm always a man of my word. I'll eat it down to the crumbs. Happy?"

They made the exchange.

Abby took a slurp. "Deliriously." Not removing her lips from the straw, she rolled out her office chair, and indicated it with an imperious finger, stopping drinking long enough to say, "Sit."

"Sorry, Gibbs is still working on that one with me. I'm doing better at not straining on the leash, though. And _barking_. You wouldn't believe the progress…" Tony stopped himself, noticing Abby's suddenly stricken expression.

"God, I'm sorry, Tony. I didn't think."

"Abby—"

"—I just blurted it, without thinking, like…like it was an _order_. And it was an order, just not that kind of order. I didn't mean to make it sound like you were some kind of trained animal, like you have no choice, or like you shouldn't have a choice, or anything—"

"—_Abby_." Tony finally succeeded in getting her attention. "It was a joke."

"A _joke_?" Abby flung the word back, now angry and distraught. "It's not a joke, Tony, the way Carlin treated you; it was _terrible_. The last thing I wanted to do was make you feel like—"

"—_I_ was joking," Tony amended. "You could never—would never—make me feel like…that."

Abby's flow of words ceased, as she seemed to read the truth of it in his eyes.

She still wasn't entirely reassured, however, demanding, "You'll totally slap me silly if I ever do make you feel like that, right?"

"You're the last person on earth who could ever…"

"And if I catch anyone else trying it, I'll slap _them_ silly."

Heaven forbid Tony laugh. She was obviously in earnest, a state very common for Abby. "I pity the next person who tries getting me to shake paws." Tony examined his sandwich. "As much as I hate to grab lunch and run…"

"It's okay, the Bossman called."

"It is—he did?"

"Yup. He called to say you were on the loose, and fair game if I could lasso you." She stuck her tongue out at his incredulous expression. "Fine, not in so many words. But I caught ya, and red-handed, too."

"How do you figure that?"

"Well, you weren't sent down here by Gibbs, or he wouldn't have called. And you wouldn't be threatening to run out on me without even asking if I'd found anything."

"Red-handed, as charged," Tony conceded. "But is it so criminal to come down here for your company alone?"

"Flatterer." Abby took a pointed intake of Caff-Pow. "You don't get off the hook so easy, Buster."

"What about the Caff-Pow? I dare you to take another sip, and tell me _without guilt_ that you would put in jail the bringer of such nectar."

"Who said anything about jail, o lunch-break-fibber?" Abby nudged the office chair forward with her knee with a sheepish "please?" on her face.

Tony sat. "'Lunch-break-fibber'?"

Abby set her Caff-Pow aside, leaning against the counter. "_You_ told Gibbs you were going to _lunch_." She nodded with a look of justified satisfaction in faith confirmed. "The Gut never lies."

"So…I took a little detour." Tony took out half the sandwich and bit in. He chewed and swallowed it quickly. Abby's very parental eye on him was not entirely convinced. "Hey, I went straight to lunch the first day back, and _almost_ straight on day two. This is my first major diversion from the mostly straight and narrow—one out of three days ain't bad."

"Well, I have to forgive you," Abby said tolerantly, taking her own sandwich out of the lunchbox. "After all, I've been eating two sandwiches by myself two days now, waiting for you to pay me a visit during lunch. Gibbs said you didn't need to be coddled, but I told him no one could say no to PB and J, and eventually you'd try and make a break from the lunch-break—and that I'd be all ready and waiting."

Tony gave her a rebellious look as he took another bite, muttering, "Manipulator."

"None of that, or I'll make Gibbs make you eat two lunches."

"What is it with everyone and the force-feeding? Even the Probie's waving donuts under my nose." It was like Oliver Twist in reverse, and it had Tony ready to plead: "I _don't_ want any more, _please, please_…"

"Well," Abby began, sounding unusually awkward and hesitant, "you've still kinda got that half-starved look." She shrugged a little, studying the floor. "What we all _really_ want to do is bash Carlin's brains in for hunting you down like some fugitive for all that time, and for hurting you and everything, but…well," another small shrug, "I guess there's not much we can do to fix any of that, and we're just trying to, I dunno…fix what we can, and get you so you don't look like you're _still_ being hurt."

Well, _that_ made Tony feel like an utter jerk. Not that that was what Abby had intended. He just hadn't really thought about the "why" behind all the food and gifts, apart from a certain compulsory need to fulfill the etiquette of welcoming a fellow coworker back. Not that he didn't think they liked him at all on a personal level. Of course they liked him. He was a likable guy. Still, he hadn't read too much into it all.

Tony sighed inwardly. For being a trained investigator, he could sure be a blundering idiot when it came to the whole interpersonal relationship thing.

And now he really didn't know what to say to Abby—and he was annoyed with himself, because Abby didn't deserve to be hurting so deeply over him, and he didn't know how to make her stop. But, then, an Abby who stopped feeling other people's pain wouldn't exactly be _Abby_, he supposed.

In the intervening silence, Abby had gone back to the subject of Carlin, and her imagined fate for him, looking more than a little blood-thirsty in the telling. "…and then dangle him in shark-infested waters, until…" She paused, frowning. "No, that would still be too quick. _Piranhas_," she pounced upon the idea with renewed inspiration, "that's more like it. Or, maybe, we could just threaten him with piranhas, and let him get good and scared, while we think up something worse. I'm thinking something to do with hot tar."

"Gruesome, Abby."

"Sorry."

"Do go on."

She grinned, and complied, painting a few progressively bloody ends for Carlin. Halfway through her Spanish Inquisition-inspired scenario, she pulled out a mini bag of Lays from her lunchbox, and opened it. "Chip?"

Tony didn't particularly feel like finishing the other half of the sandwich, much less taking on more food. It had less to do with Abby's subject, and more to do with taste buds that continued to refuse to do their job. Turning up the taste dial didn't help, either; it just made things taste bad more sharply.

Abby gave him a sympathetic look. "I hate how colds make everything go all hinky. Pneumonia must be lots worse."

"Yeah, remind me never to get it again."

Abby withdrew the bag of chips apologetically. "I'm coddling again, aren't I?"

"I'll live."

"That's kinda the point with eating, you know."

"Huh. Thanks for the tip." Tony mumbled through another bite: "S'good sandwich. Crunchy peanut butter." Which meant even if he couldn't taste accurately, the texture was something familiar.

Abby beamed extra happily, which, for her, meant she was close to bursting into spontaneous hugging.

Seeing how pleased she was to see him pleased with the sandwich struck home to Tony just how easy it was to make her happy—and suddenly he knew exactly what to say to make amends, in a small way, for the hurt she felt for him.

"Maybe I will have one of those chips."

Abby looked at him in suspicion. "You're not stuffing your face just to humor me, now, are you?"

"Hand over the salt and no one gets hurt." The word "salt" said, Tony found his taste buds stirring into genuine craving, as if they'd been waiting for the cue. The chip Abby allowed him didn't taste quite normal, but it tasted enough. "You wouldn't happen to have any guilt-defying facts about the health benefits of potato chips, would ya, Abbs?"

"Are you kidding me? Hello: _potato_ chips? They're a vegetable."

"Almost as healthy as popcorn?"

"Right up there. Here—take the bag."

Tony only hesitated a second before accepting. It was definitely the right choice. Abby looked ready to float away, and he was pretty sure the Caff-Pow she'd already downed half of was only partly responsible. So he stuffed his face—yeah, humoring her a little, but thoroughly enjoying his vegetables with salt—and listened to her launch out into a whole new category of stories wherein Carlin got his just deserts.

Being coddled wasn't all bad.

* * *

_To be Continued..._

A/N: Thanks so much for all the feedback! I know, I sound like a broken record. XD But you're all just the _best_, feeding my review addiction so generously. Hope you enjoy the update.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

* * *

Gibbs was smiling on the inside, Tony was pretty sure.

Despite the fact that they had a long drive ahead of them, _Tony_ was smiling on the outside, not hiding the fact that it felt good to be officially back out in the field. Even if they were working a dull angle on the Savoy kidnapping case that seemed unlikely to turn up anything—other than a thirty-minute drive, just him and Gibbs.

Just him…and a predictably taciturn Gibbs.

McGee never seemed to know what to do with Gibbs' lack of conversation initiative. Ziva was less on the chit-chat to begin with, and could easily resign herself to a long stretch of silence, without taking it personally.

Tony didn't take it personally, either. After all, Gibbs was still consuming his first cup of coffee of the day. Besides, Tony had something over McGee and Ziva: years of experience on them both, in which he'd learned to read the levels of Taciturn Gibbs. This taciturn Gibbs was more reserved than aloof. Silent, not standoffish. It was a good thing, too, because they were only ten minutes out, and there was still the return trip left.

Of course, it didn't really matter what Gibbs' mood was, because Tony pretty much dealt with all the levels of a taciturn Gibbs in the same way. He talked at him.

Mostly, Tony talked to hear the sound of his own voice, because he had to get his entertainment somewhere, and Gibbs never volunteered. He also talked because, every so often, a merely silent Gibbs would find something he said amusing. Or, if Gibbs were on the homicidal end of the Taciturn Scale, Tony would find out _very_ quickly. In those instances, where Gibbs was _not_ amused, Tony might as well have painted a bull's-eye on his forehead, and handed Gibbs a gun. But, while it was more than suicidal to crack jokes around a well and truly foul-tempered Gibbs, Tony was not without his reasons, and tactics. After all, annoying Gibbs played a twofold role: Tony got to talk, and Gibbs got a handy target.

It was a good deal all around, as far as Tony was concerned, what with the bonus of getting those "_you're crazy_" looks from McGee, who would no more have intentionally ticked Gibbs off than he would have a serial killer.

Today, with Gibbs in a good mood (or what constituted one, for him), Tony was talking full-force, and keeping a constant watch for that tattle-tell smirk Gibbs would sometimes respond with. That smirk didn't come easy, especially in the middle of a case, when Gibbs was focused on an objective, but Tony had plenty of time to work on getting one out of him.

"Nothing like a ride North towards the countryside," Tony commented, realizing an unacceptable silence had lapsed. "Rural Maryland…" Tony sighed in theatrical appreciation. "Of course, this isn't a pleasure cruise. Wasn't saying that, Boss. A drive through the suburbs isn't really my idea of a treat, anyways. I'm more of a city, guy—you know, see all the sights."

Gibbs reached, without looking, to take his coffee from the cup holder.

Tony cleared his throat. Time for a new line of attack. "Good to be back out in the field." He glanced around at the view, which was indeed becoming more rural. They were currently passing an empty plot that, while not strictly a field, was close enough to make Tony chuckle. "Out in the _field_? Get it?" He glanced at Gibbs. No luck on the smirk, yet. "Maybe the whole team could take a _field_ trip one of these days, Boss. You know, like, to an actual—"

"—Do you want to be out there _walking_ that field, DiNozzo?"

Time for plan C. Or was he on D? It didn't matter. He had at least an alphabet's worth of back-up plans.

"You know who we're like, Boss?" Gibbs spared him a glance, if not an answer. Tony was pretty sure it was an "enlighten me" kind of look, so enlighten he did. "Tommy Lee Jones, and Will Smith, in 'Men in Black.' You're obviously Tommy Lee Jones," he looked sideways at Gibbs, adding, "only better looking and smarter, of course. And I'm Will Smith—although clearly better looking, smarter, _and_ better in the comedy department." He should've known better than to expect too much from puns and movie references, but plan E was to use "Starsky and Hutch," and he liked the fit of "Men in Black" a little better.

Gibbs didn't offer any encouraging input on the topic. He drank his coffee.

"So," Tony forged on, bravely, "can I use the flashy-thing on these guys when we're done questioning them, or were you planning on doing the honors?"

"Flashy…thing?" Gibbs repeated slowly with raised eyebrow.

Considering this was Gibbs he was talking to, Tony took it as all the encouragement he was going to get, and launched into an explanation with gusto. "I mean, I generally leave it to McGee to drool over technology, but just think about what we could do with one of these things, Boss. Someone sees me use my super-powers in the line of duty? No problem. Just flashy-thing them, and—_bam_—our secret's still safe. Whatcha think?"

Tony had been so caught up in his own fervor he hadn't been watching for the smirk. Now, he looked over, and found one pulling at the corner of Gibbs' mouth.

"I think I need one of those."

Tony grinned. He hadn't actually been expecting agreement. This was, like, success times ten. "I'm sure we can convince the McGenius to get a start on it pronto. Maybe, while he's at that, he could take a look into working on replicating some of those weapons, too. Like that one they use at the end of the first movie…"

"In the meantime, don't make me use my gun."

"Gun, Boss?"

Gibbs turned the car onto a side road. "To make any witnesses _forget_."

"Oh. Well, I dunno, Boss, I don't think it would take your gun. I'm pretty sure you could convince anyone to forget. You've got this really convincing smile."

The smirk that got from Gibbs wasn't of the entirely friendly version. Yeah, Gibbs was pretty sure he could convince any witnesses to forget, too—not with his gun, but maybe not with his smile, either.

"Good to know you've got my six, Boss."

"Yeah? Just make sure you _let_ me, DiNozzo."

"No stunts for the camera. Promise. Not that there are going to be any cameras out here…wherever we are. Or that these guys are likely to give any trouble worthy of stunts."

Gibbs looked at him, and there was no smirk in his expression. "If you're going to be out in the field, I need to know you've got your head on straight."

"It's straight, Boss. Straighter then straight."

"Dials."

"Check," Tony reported promptly. "Not a screw loose."

"Keep it that way."

"I'm in the zone, Boss." Tony reconsidered that. "Okay, bad choice of words. No zoning, whatsoever." Gibbs gave him a particularly pressing look, and Tony could guess pretty easily what he was thinking. "Yeah, about that backwards zoning…stuff. It's kinda like this, Boss, I can't help it when—" He was interrupted by a head-slap.

Gibbs was looking convincing, but not in the smiling way.

"Boss," Tony started over, plaintively, and rubbing the back of his head, but knowing he'd deserved it, "really, it's not like I can help it." He swallowed under an even more convincing look from Gibbs. "I'm working on it. But it's kinda gotten to be a knee-jerk reaction, and when it does happen, it's not like I can see, or hear—"

"—Find a way."

It was blunt, even for Gibbs. But Tony thought he understood, and in the same way Abby's hurt had made him feel guilty, it startled him to realize Gibbs had been scared. He'd been scared that night, when he hadn't been able to wake Tony. It was a guilty revelation. Sure, Gibbs had _said_ plenty to the effect that he was concerned, but it had never struck Tony how much until right then—looking at the flinty set of Gibbs' face—just how scared Gibbs was by the pitfalls of Tony's being a Sentinel. The "why" of it was pretty easy to see, now that he stopped to think about it. Tony supposed he'd be pretty freaked, too, if Gibbs were to abruptly go deaf, blind, and insensitive to touch.

At that point, the question "Tell me again _why_, exactly, you want to be my Guide?" begged to be asked, but Gibbs had made it pretty clear they were beyond that. Gibbs was his Guide, and wouldn't have it any other way. Tony was pretty sure Gibbs was getting the worst part of this partnership. _So hold up __your end, already, DiNozzo. Be his Sentinel. _And it was just as maddeningly simple, and complicated, as that. Gibbs wasn't expecting perfection, but he did expect Tony to trust him.

"I'll…I'll hear you, Boss. No matter what, I'll find a way to."

Gibbs looked at him first appraisingly, then with unadulterated approval.

Even his best grin really wouldn't have done justice to the glow that ignited in Tony's chest, and he was too busy, anyways, trying not to squirm like McGee on a bashful day. It was annoying how quips deserted you at the worst times.

Mercifully, they pulled into the driveway, at their destination, a minute later.

"Building" would have been a generous term for the faded and depressed outbuilding they pulled up in front of.

"You sure this is the place?" Tony corrected himself, as Gibbs got out without answering, which was answer enough. "Of course it's the right place." He got out, and closed his door, examining the faded red paint: it was a barn, sure enough. "Great. First field work in months, and I get the redneck interview…"

"_DiNozzo_."

"Coming, Boss."

The doors were cracked open, and there was music playing inside with a beat loud enough to rival Abby's any day of the week.

Gibbs looked at Tony as they approached, a question in the glance.

"I'll let you know if my ears start bleeding," Tony assured, loud enough to be heard over the din. "I'm good to go."

Gibbs nodded, and entered first. Not surprisingly, none of the four men inside noticed them—until Gibbs cut the music with angry jab to the buttons of the CD player, situated on one of the hay bales. There was a chorus of "hey"s and other protests from the men, all of whom had been facing the other direction, and were now turning to see who'd killed their groove.

Tony stared, bemused and taken aback at the sight. Two of them were wielding…bows. Not the big, mechanical bows of modern-day hunters, but odd medieval-looking things. At least, to Tony's inexpert eye, they appeared medieval. They certainly looked ready to don chain mail and go to work guarding the castle (maybe as Prince John's brick-headed entourage).

The other two men had handguns. A quick scan of the barn's large interior revealed it had been rudely remodeled into some kind of shooting range—guns, and bows (cross-bows?), both allowed, apparently.

"Sorry to interrupt your fun, kids," Tony apologized, rounding another bale of hay, pulling out his badge along with Gibbs.

Gibbs made introductions. "Special Agents Gibbs and DiNozzo. NCIS."

"NI-what?" what of the bow-wielders asked.

Tony flipped his badge shut expertly. "_NCIS_. Stands for Naval Criminal Investigative Serv—"

Before Tony could even begin to try out the Will Smith impersonation he'd been pondering, the place turned into a circus of panicking rednecks with weapons. Not a pretty sight.

Tony ducked behind the nearest stack of bales, along with Gibbs, both of them drawing their guns as an arrow flew overhead where they'd been previously standing.

"I'm gonna go out on a limb here, and say these guys know something about Savoy's disappearance." Either that, or they just suffered from generally guilty consciences. Or maybe they were just a trigger- and string-happy lot, eager to have a go at a few moving targets. Tony was kind of leaning towards the third idea.

"Backup."

"Way ahead of you, Boss." Tony had already fished his cell out of his pocked. "Terrific. No coverage."

Gibbs tossed Tony his own cell, as he got off a shot over the top of the bales.

Tony crammed both cells back into his pockets in disgust. "No luck. It looks like we've got these yahoos all to ourselves." He peered out from his side of the bale, gun level, quickly evaluating the situation, their opponents similarly having taken cover behind the hay bales they had their targets set up on. Tony was forced to duck again, as a bullet whizzed past his ear. "We're Federal Agents!" Tony called out, just in case their four-man circus hadn't deduced as much from the "Naval Criminal Investigative" part. There was an encouraging moment of silence. "Put your weapons down, and come out with your hands up, so we can all have a talk, civilized-like!"

None of them seemed to get the two-way negotiation thing—unless the thwack of a bullet into the doorframe above Gibbs and Tony was their idea of a civilized answer. Thankfully, the pyramid of hay bales they'd found would be too thick for the bullets to penetrate. Tony hoped. Unfortunately, the same could probably be said for their adversaries' cover—the large bales, with targets pinned to the front, looked to be stacked two or three deep.

"We could rush 'em," Tony suggested. "I'll take the two with cross-bows."

"They're panicked—wasting their ammo."

"So…we goad them on until they run out? Works for me. I've got loads of redneck jokes."

Gibbs looked wryly at him.

"No, really. I've got some good ones." Tony watched an arrow go overhead, peeked his head around the side of the hay bale, and got off a shot at one of the bow-wielders, just moving back into cover. The curse sounded promising. Tony got back into his own cover pretty quick. "How do you know if you're staying in an Arkansas hotel?"

"DiNozzo…"

"When you call the front desk, and tell the clerk 'I got a leak in my sink,' and the clerk replies, 'go ahead.'" Under different circumstances, Tony was pretty sure he might've gotten one of those smirks out of Gibbs, but this wasn't different circumstances, and right then their own resident rednecks were going all out on a spastic shooting stint that left the air ringing, and an arrow quivering in the wood above the door behind them.

"Geez, Boss, you didn't have to make my first day back so spectacular. But I do like the whole cross-bow touch. Very theatric."

"Glad you approve."

There was another display of firepower, and then everything went quiet. Eerily quiet. A quick glance around the bale proved that they weren't about to be ambushed, though; the scene was entirely still. Then there was the sound of hushed voices—Tony didn't have to extend his hearing much to eavesdrop. He nudged the dial back to normal levels, grinning.

"Right as always, Boss. Sounds like our crew of motley miscreants are ready to raise the white flag. No more bullets—and, what's more, it's finally beginning to sink in that this little showdown wasn't such a hot idea."

Right on time, a shaken-sounding voice called out (rather anti-climactically, Tony thought), "Uh…guys? Federal Agent…guys?"

"Yeah, the Federal Agent guys are listening," Tony shot back.

"I'm coming out."

"Me too," piped up another voice, at the same time as a third voice added, "Yeah, I'm coming."

"Throw your weapons out, and stand up slowly, hands where we can see them," Gibbs instructed, putting that convincing voice of his to good use.

The sound of approaching cars couldn't have come at a worse time. Just as Gibbs and Tony were stepping out from their cover, guns raised on their four sorry-looking suspects who were also coming, hands in the air, the noise of wheels on the drive caught them all off guard. The sound of car doors opening and slamming shut, and more than one person getting out, seemed to be too much pressure for the tow-headed kid, the last to emerge from safety.

Tony saw the scared look, heard the muttered, "Not going to jail for your guys' stupid stunt"—and, from there, simply reacted, as the idiot snatched up his recently surrendered crossbow, along with one of the scattered bolts, and aimed at Gibbs, discharging the weapon in a fluid motion. There was the twang of the string releasing, and a whirring coming closer. Tony didn't actually _see_ the missile, so much as follow the whirring with automatically acute hearing—and stop it mid-flight.

He was stunned by the feel of the shaft against his palm, solid, real, and most importantly not in its intended target. The sight of the now gaping blond kid—bow still raised—awakened a ferocious and blinding rage in Tony. The kid had intended to kill _his_ Guide; Gibbs could've been shot down by a _kid_ with a _crossbow_.

Tony looked from the arrow in his hand to the idiot who'd shot it, and took a menacing step forward, still reacting more than thinking. This sorry excuse for a Robin Hood reject had tried to shoot down his Guide, and by the time Tony had reached him he was sure he would be able to make up his mind as to whether he'd shoot the guy, or strangle him, or just go for poetic justice and plunge the arrow into his heart.

Thing was, Tony never got close enough to choose. He was interrupted by the people suddenly flooding into the room behind him. Police were demanding answers, and Gibbs was declaring himself and Tony to be NCIS, and then the police were rushing in to apprehend the suspects—tow-head still staring at Tony, and his friends cussing him out, and the whole situation.

Tony still wasn't done with tow-head yet, though. He found his anger encompassing the police, who were now blocking his access, and Tony took another step in, snarling to teach that kid just what the consequences were for—

A hand clapped down on Tony's shoulder.

"Nice catch."

The voice broke through Tony's murderous haze like cold water to the face. Or a Gibbs-slap to the back of the head.

Tony still had his gun clutched in his right hand. He'd caught the arrow left-handed, he realized. _Huh. _

"Nice save." Gibbs spoke again, the second compliment, in so short a period of time, surely some kind of record.

Tony felt his rage dissolve, like a tangible weight falling from his shoulders. Gibbs was alive. Tony had done his job—and the police were hand-cuffing the moron who'd tried to harm him. Justice would be served.

Tony's hands fell to his sides, still clutching arrow and gun, like strange security blankets. "Thanks, Boss." His eyes followed the police as they finished securing the four men. "Um…were'd the backup come from?"

"One of your people called us in. Said there was reason to suspect two agents were walking into a potentially dangerous situation, unaware, without backup—and that they hadn't been able to contact you by cell." This was from a police officer, who approached them, and shook Gibbs' hand, introducing himself: "Captain Robert Vogel." He indicated the four men, under his men's custody, being escorted out. "Looks like whoever made that call was right."

Gibbs nodded. "Good timing."

"…And not to seem ungrateful," Tony interjected, "but we'll be needing those guys you just handcuffed later for some chit-chat down in interrogation."

Vogel smiled. "You can have 'em. But I don't imagine you'd mind a little help with the transportation."

"God, no," Tony agreed with feeling, imagining cramming four rednecks into the back of the car he and Gibbs had come in. "I'm pretty sure we'd have to break some seat-belt laws to manage it, ourselves. Twice obliged, Captain."

Vogel gave Tony an odd look. "That younger kid—he was going on and on, all about you catching an _arrow_? His friends backed him up, too."

"Ah…" Tony glanced down at the arrow he was holding, resisting the urge to hide it behind his back, like a kid caught with a stolen cookie.

"I wouldn't place too much stock in the panicked ranting of a couple of suspected drug-users, if I were you," Gibbs said coolly.

Captain Vogel was obviously no fool, which was why he only examined Gibbs' poker-face for a brief second before replying, "No. I make it a habit not to."

"Appreciate the help, Captain. Come on, DiNozzo." Gibbs steered Tony out of the barn, towards their car.

"Boss, we should be securing the evidence, and make sure they—"

"—It can wait a minute."

Tony, finally beginning to remember himself, returned his gun to his holster. Before he could decide what to do with the arrow, though, Gibbs had taken it from him, and Tony winced as he uncurled his fingers, staring in surprise at his bloody palm.

Gibbs had the first-aid kit out of the car, and was pulling out gauze and bandages. Materializing a water bottle from somewhere, he took Tony's hand and, without asking permission, poured some of the water over it.

"Ouch," Tony complained, as the blood washed away to reveal two nasty looking cuts where the fletching from the arrow had scored both his palm and his fingers, near the middle joint. They weren't the deepest gashes he'd ever had, but they were deep enough that they were going to be there to annoy him for a long time. At least it was his _left_ hand.

Tony "ouched" again, as Gibbs pressed several pieces of gauze to the wounds, instructing Tony to hold them in place with his good hand. Starting at the wrist, Gibbs wound the bandaging twice around to secure it, continuing across the back of his hand, around the fingers, and then the palm, covering the gauze tightly enough to hold it in place. He repeated the process several times, using his teeth to cut off several pieces from a roll of athletic tape to hold the end in place.

"Slick," Tony approved. "We make a good team, Boss."

Gibbs looked up from his handiwork, regarded Tony searchingly, and nodded.

Tony squirmed. "Let's get to work, Boss."

_To be Continued..._

**A/N:** The jokes made herein are simply an expression of a certain character's juvenile sense of humor, and are not to be taken as statements of the author's opinion of either red-necks, or Arkansas. XD

Oh. And there _are_ really people (not even of the Sentinel variety, lol) who can catch arrows with their hands. 'Tis true. More on that in the epilogue-which is the next section. I'll try to have that up in a day or two. ;) You've all been wonderful to encourage me along the way with this, thank you! (And if anyone's interested, I can add a few notes on the end of the epilogue about other stories I've been working on.)


	16. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

* * *

In theory, Carlin knew he was safe. In reality, however, he didn't _feel_ safe. Perhaps he was being irrational. Perhaps he was not.

Agent Gibbs sat across from him in the dimly lit interview room, eyes dark with some fathomless emotion, that Carlin was pretty sure involved a desire for violence. The shadows cast across his face gave his expression an even more sinister look. That look made Carlin wonder if Gibbs might not throw his own career in law enforcement out the window, and go to jail, himself, just for the pleasure of killing Carlin right there and then. And he could do it, too, before the guards outside could rush in and stop him. Carlin was left in no doubt of that, by the promise gleaming in that icy blue gaze.

Carlin had heard enough of Gibbs' threats before—watching him on the live video feed, from the safety of his viewing room, back when the odds had been in his favor—to know the kind of things Gibbs _wanted_ to do to him.

Carlin cleared his throat. "Dinner will be being served shortly, Agent Gibbs." Carlin was impressed with himself, at how he made it sound as if he were on his way to some high-class social function, instead of a prison cafeteria. "I'm sure this visit has a purpose?"

"I'm waiting," Gibbs said simply.

"Well, you'll be waiting a long time, I'm afraid, because I haven't the faintest idea what you're here for."

Gibbs didn't respond to that. He just went back to watching Carlin with that unnerving, unblinking, unappeasable stare.

"I'll get my lawyer," Carlin snapped.

"You don't _need_ your lawyer," Gibbs snapped back, more impressively.

Right then, Carlin had to agree with Gibbs. What he needed was a bodyguard.

However, Carlin thought he began to understand the purpose of this visit. He managed to keep his tone superior, unafraid. "This is about the Sentinel, isn't it?" The flash in Gibbs' eyes—a moment of more focused anger—confirmed as much. "Well, I don't make it a habit of saying 'I told you so,' but if he's gotten out of hand, I feel I'm entitled to remind you I _did_ try to warn you."

Gibbs leaned in close across the table, voice hushed, but not losing any of its intended intensity for it. "_My_ Sentinel just caught an arrow intended for me."

That statement brought up far too many questions to coherently ask, so Carlin settled for a nonplussed: "Caught…an arrow?"

Gibbs gave a smile that was more snarl than anything. "With his left hand. Grabbed it before it could hit me. Long story. The short of it is, DiNozzo had my six, like he always has. And," Gibbs gave a shrug, affected nonchalance anything but unconcerned, "he cut down on a lot of searching."

"Searching?" Carlin parroted.

"We were on an interview for a kidnapping case. Turned out we didn't need to question our suspects to find the victim, after all."

With a strange, unsettled sensation in the pit of his stomach, Carlin realized Gibbs' actual reasons for the visit. He was here to gloat. "The Sentinel…" he began slowly, too stunned to think about preserving his pride.

"Picked out the sound of someone kicking against a door," Gibbs completed the thought for him. "Led us right to the shack where they were keeping him." Gibbs' snarl-smile widened. "Got our victim home today—and I'm not in the hospital, or dead—all thanks to the Sentinel. Not too bad for DiNozzo's first day back in the field, wouldn't you say?"

Carlin looked down at his lap, studying the material of his garish orange jumpsuit. "I…didn't think…" He licked dry lips. "That is, the Sentinel was obviously a rebel. Dangerous. He was exactly the kind of Sentinel—"

Gibbs' fist slammed down on the table hard, making Carlin jump in his seat, as he growled fiercely in a voice low enough to keep the words between the two of them: "Exactly the kind of _Sentinel_ to make his Guide proud."

Carlin blinked at Gibbs, amazed and taken aback to see the truth of it. He _was_…proud. Proud of a Sentinel Carlin had been ready to give up hope on. He was _proud_ of an un-trainable Sentinel, with clear authority issues, and a smart mouth.

Maybe these two were a match, after all. Carlin didn't understand either one of them.

There was satisfaction, now, mingled with the gleam in Gibbs' eyes. He knew his words were getting through to Carlin. "DiNozzo's one of the good guys."

"Of course, there was always that potential," Carlin replied, regaining some of his composure. "That was the point of all my endeavors with him. To train him to be of the most use to mankind. He made it necessary, himself, to use some physical pain as a corrective tool—"

"I could kill you right now," Gibbs said evenly, an edge of dark amusement suggesting he was working under the assumption that Carlin had figured _that_ out for himself.

"But you won't," Carlin returned hotly, even while his eyes darted of their own volition to the door.

"No. But I should."

"There's this thing called 'due process,' that even you are bound to abide by, Agent Gibbs. I have my rights."

"Oh, I'd be well within _my_ rights, too. As a Guide."

Carlin swallowed thickly. "My trial is tomorrow."

"I'll be there." Gibbs stood, circling over behind Carlin to lean in close to his ear. "And if you say _anything_ that could in any way endanger my Sentinel, or the secret of the existence of Sentinels in general, I'll be back for another _talk_." He moved back around the table with measured, casual stride. "It won't be as painless as this one, either."

"_Threats_, Agent Gibbs?"

Gibbs came at him again, leaning his arms against the table, face close enough to Carlin's that Carlin could feel the puff of his breath against his skin as he answered, "Not idle ones."

Gibbs turned to go, but Carlin stopped him, and he turned back to face him part way.

"Agent Gibbs? Despite what you may think of my methods, I never _wanted_ to hurt DiNozzo. Everything I did—it was all for his own good."

"His _good_ was never your concern."

With that, Gibbs left, leaving Carlin to consider what he'd said, and wonder if he'd been bluffing, and if DiNozzo had really caught an arrow, and also to wonder—supposing all of that _were_ true—if he'd missed the opportunity of a lifetime by losing a Sentinel who could do that, so instinctively.

One thing was certain: he'd made a life-long enemy out of a Guide who took his job very seriously.

At least he could ease his regret, minimally, with the knowledge that tomorrow he would prove to Agent Gibbs that he'd never intended to harm Sentinels. Carlin had only wanted to protect humans, and it was obvious DiNozzo was under control, even if Carlin didn't understand Gibbs' training methods.

* * *

"Something you wanna say to me, McSmirker?"

At his desk, McGee glanced up oh-so-innocently. "Um, no. And I'm not smirking, either."

"Are too."

"I would not call it a smirk," Ziva spoke up, from her desk.

Tony's frown traveled from McGee to Ziva. "He is. And you're smug. What gives?"

"Tony!" Abby came barreling out of the elevator, arms out in an incoming hug—which Tony swiveled in his chair to receive.

"Geez, guys, I know we solved the case, and all, but—"

"You caught the arrow? Seriously? That is so, so, so way beyond the coolest thing I've ever heard. Ever." Abby was just a little excited. "Oh, I wish I could've _seen_ it…"

Tony's gaze raked over smirking McGee, smug Ziva, and back to gleeful Abby, suspicions consolidating. "How many people did you tell, Abbs?"

"Just Ducky."

"And Ducky kind of told me," McGee admitted.

"And McGee told me," Ziva volunteered with that maddeningly cool self-confidence that left no room for self-consciousness—or for comprehension of Tony's self-consciousness. "I do not see why you should mind. It was very heroic."

"I suppose the whole building knows, now," Tony complained with a surreptitious look around for signs of anyone peering over the top of their cubicle. He knew he was overacting. He just thought _they_ were all overacting a bit, too. Maybe it was heroic, but it was also just part of his job. Granted, he'd gone about it rather theatrically, maybe too over-the-top, but he'd been doing his job Sentinel-style, that was all.

"It was a spur-of-the-moment…parlor trick," Tony said dismissively.

"Saving Gibbs' life is not a _parlor trick_, Tony," Abby chastised.

"Not what I meant." Tony sunk a little further down his chair, feeling like a bug under a microscope under the weight of his co-workers' blatant regard. He was really beginning to think it hadn't been a good idea, telling Abby the details, but he hadn't had much choice. On their drive back, Tony had called Ziva and McGee, giving them a brief sit rep, with little elaboration, other than to inform them the case was solved. Gibbs had then told Tony to call Abby. It had been hard to resist a worried and worked-up Abby, demanding to know "everything." That need for "everything" hadn't been satisfied until he'd answered her questions about there being any injuries—and, of course, Tony's "nothing serious" hadn't gone over well as an explanation.

"Where's the Bossman, anyways?" Abby wanted to know.

"He said something about settling some unfinished business with Carlin," Tony supplied.

"Oh," Abby said, with pleased knowing, "'unfinished business.' He's going to give the bad man what he deserves, finally."

Tony was amused. "Uh, I didn't really get the impression…" Then, he realized he actually _had_ gotten the impression. "Yeah, I guess he did look pleased when he said it, now that you mention it."

Abby nodded. "Pleased in that way that means soon someone else _isn't_ gonna be pleased." The knowledge seemed to make everything right in Abby's World, and she resumed her initial topic, much to Tony's dismay. "Your poor hand," she exclaimed, sitting on the edge of his desk, and taking his injured hand carefully in hers. "You had Ducky take a look at it, right?"

"Bossman's orders, first thing," Tony sighed.

"Good." She didn't let go of his hand, cradling it like she could heal it faster through caring. "How did you _do_ it?" she breathed.

"Yeah," McGee seconded, "was it like…a spidey-sense moment, or what?"

"Spidey-sense?" Tony repeated, with a "Who do you take me for?" look, that informed McGee his inner geek was showing. Admittedly, Tony had seen and liked the Spider Man _movies_.

McGee ducked his head a little. "Okay—slow motion, then."

Tony considered the question. "Sort of." It hadn't seemed so much like things had slowed down, though, as it had felt like his own ability to deal with the threat had just…been there, when he needed it. When Gibbs had needed it. His hearing had grabbed on to the sound of the arrow coming, and his hand had grabbed the arrow, because otherwise it would've hit Gibbs.

"Sort of…how slow?" Abby pressed.

"Just _sort of_ slow." Tony knew it was impossible to really make them understand. "Mostly I heard it, I guess." It might have been more accurate to say he'd "felt" it, but he knew they'd just ask how he'd felt it, and he didn't have an answer for that.

"Oh!" Abby exclaimed, relinquishing Tony's hand, and moving around his desk, this time to steal his keyboard.

Tony had no choice but to pull back and allow her access. "Abby?"

"I've got an idea…. _Yes_. Here it is. Ziva, McGee, c'mere."

They obeyed Abby willingly, crowding around Tony's desk to watch as Abby brought up a YouTube video.

"Myth Busters?" Tony looked more closely at the title. "Ninja, catching arrow?"

"Yup." Abby pressed play.

Tony watched the slow motion video of the arrow catch, and he did have to admit it was…impressive.

Obviously, the rest of them thought so, too, Abby expressing herself more verbally, while Ziva and McGee just did the smirking/smug thing.

Tony refused to squirm, interjecting, "It's not like I did a pro job of it." He indicated his bandaged hand. "It wasn't like…_that_. Ninja stuff."

"No…" Abby said slowly, patiently. "They're using a basic recurve bow in this video."

"So?"

"Tony, the guy was using a crossbow."

"So?"

"From the sound of—at the kind of distance you mentioned—the arrow was likely traveling at a faster rate."

"Yeah," McGee added, "not to mention the size of a crossbow bolt is shorter than your average arrow."

"Which means," Ziva made her contribution, "it would be considerably harder to time grabbing it."

"And so," Abby concluded, "it's still way beyond cool that you caught it, even if the fletching did catch you."

How could Tony refute such solid and convincing arguments? "Okay. So it was cool. A little."

"Like on Myth Busters." Gibbs made them all start guiltily.

Well, maybe not Abby. She bestowed a pleased look on Gibbs. "Just like a ninja."

Tony winced, changing the subject to the two boxes Gibbs was carrying. "Pizza, Boss?"

"You killed Carlin," Abby said, eyes going suddenly wide with hope. "It's a _celebration_."

Gibbs' smirk was one of his easy, relaxed ones, the kind that Abby elicited from him more than anyone. "Not yet."

"You mangled him, just a little?" Abby held up thumb and index finger, less than an inch apart—then increased the distance slightly, still tentatively hopeful.

"He knows, Abbs."

"In no uncertain terms?"

"In my terms." Gibbs set one box down on Tony's desk, and handed the other off to Ziva as she cleared a spot.

Ducky came in just as they were beginning to dig in, saying, "Thank you for the invitation to the feast, Jethro." He gave the contented scene a somewhat suspicious glance, and asked Gibbs in a hushed voice, "Oh my, don't tell me this is a celebration of…a _certain_ black-hearted villain's death?"

Gibbs chuckled—actually chuckled. "Afraid not, Duck."

"But don't worry," Abby consoled, tapping the side of her nose with an index finger, "Carlin knows, in _Gibbs'_ terms."

"Ah," Ducky said, nodding, and accepting a piece of slice of pizza as Ziva offered, "then all is right with the world, I suppose."

"Almost." Tony chewed contemplatively on his slice of pepperoni 'n extra cheese. "I still don't get why they were using _crossbows_."

"They were re-enactors for a medieval society, Tony."

Tony looked down his nose at McGee. "You _would_ know."

"That stuff's really is kinda cool. Re-enacting." Abby made an expression of distaste. "'Cept for whack-jobs like these guys, who have to come along and give a perfectly good hobby a bad name. They thought Savoy had personal access to drugs—and that he'd really just give them some? Sheesh."

"I don't know about the 'perfectly good hobby' part…" Tony differed.

Abby swatted his arm. "Dressing up is _fun_."

"How did you know to send in backup, anyways?" Tony asked, around another bite.

Abby struggled, and finally prevailed, against a string of cheese that hadn't wanted to end. "Their fingerprints were all over Savoy's apartment. Problem was, they weren't the only ones all over his apartment, and it took me a while to sort through 'em all. Savoy's a popular guy. Anyways," she finished another bite, "once I got an I.D. on their finger prints, I recognized them, and looked them up on that feed from the bar—bingo." She hunched her shoulders in a shudder of remembrance. "That was a bad, bad feeling, though, when I couldn't contact you guys. Let's not talk about it."

"Hey, it all turned out good, Abby," Tony aimed for nonchalance, but tried to slip in a look of gratitude between the lines. "And, what's more, pizza finally tastes like pizza again." He gave a blissful sigh as he snagged a second piece and bit off a large bite, complimenting Gibbs through the inhibiting mouth-full, "S'good."

No one reminded him it was rude to talk with his mouth full. Mostly, they were all too busy looking pleased. Even Gibbs was looking quietly, supremely satisfied.

The gathering dark outside always made the bullpen feel just a bit homier, under-lit by desk lamps, and mostly emptied out, except for Team Gibbs. Tony savored the first food he'd truly savored in months, and looked around at faces that he'd been starved for, even more than food, in all those long weeks of wandering.

Somehow, without Tony initially noticing, Abby had managed to get a hold of his injured hand again. She gave the tips of his fingers the lightest of squeezes, whispering in a voice so low it had to be meant for Sentinels' ears only: "Welcome home, Tony. Your Tribe missed you, too."

* * *

**A/N:** A last big thank you to everyone all you readers and reviews! Really, you guys are the BEST. In response to your questions about more stories in this 'verse, I'm afraid I don't have any multi-chapter stories started or planned. Of course I'm not ruling out the possibility for more in the future-but at this point all I have left is a short story or two. I also have some other NCIS stories, finished and almost finished. One is a kid!fic (betcha can't guess who _that_ happens to), and the other is...kind of hard to explain. Essentially, it's a long-term undercover AU, with Gibbs infiltrating a ring of mafia-style crime lords...as a crime lord (and I betcha can't guess who his "Family" is).

Anyways, I'm still working on finishing up the kid!fic, but the long-term undercover AU is nearly ready to post, and I'll probably be doing so after my next vacation, around the end of June. Because I'm particularly nervous about posting that one, I'll also probably wind up posting it first to my LJ (nefhiriel . livejournal . com - remove the spaces), to test the waters, so to speak. I post my fic in public posts, in case anyone's interested in reading it there. I _will_ continue to post here, as well-it'll just be more delayed while I post to LJ. ;)


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